What Is Said In the Silence (Alice/Uncas) 2/2
Disclaimer: I make no profit off this story it is simply a way to amuse myself and anyone who is bored enough to read it.
Summery: I should note that the waterfall scene is not something I made up, I am just expounding on a scene in the movie script that didn't make it on screen. All in all I'm only writing scenes that occured either in the book, script, or movie.
Warning: More smutty lemony goodness so if this turns your stomach, turn back now. Also be warned... crazy amounts of angst.
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"What Is Said In The Silence"
Part Two
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-
-
Last time:
"The lust drowns out everything, even the rational part of his brain that knows she will hate them after this is done; because he is a Mohican and she is a gentleman's daughter and even in this wild land, even with his hands grasping her hips and her nails coursing down his back, they are still worlds apart.
Slowly she moves, her face full of determination and need; finding her rhythm she tears him apart and he tells her everything."
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-
-
As Uncas loves her in the half light of the night he wonders why he ever thought she was a child of the moon. Even though her hair and skin and eyes are as pale as the moon's waning glow she is none of these things. She is not ice... she is fire. She is molten heat. She is all warmth and friction around him and above him.
Her hands brace on his shoulders for leverage as she pulsates on him. Up and down, and then up again. The pleasure is so intense he can hardly remember his own name, and yet still the words pour from his mouth. A never ceasing, streaming, fountain of words.
She is the softness to his hardness, at once yielding then pushing and pulling at him. All he can do is to grasps her hips in his palms and help her. And she doesn't stop moving, riding him higher and higher; building the flame with her body as her thighs straddle his. Even as he arches into her one last time she still moves on him, reaching down to finish herself off. And it is this sight of her pleasuring herself that sends him spiraling to join her in release.
As he climaxes it is only then that he stops speaking and he is finally silent. Everything has stopped. The world has stopped spinning and he can't think or breathe, only feel. He doesn't understand the feeling. It is like running through the forest with the great elk. Fast, furious, and free. He never thought to feel such a thing with one such as her.
It scares him that he feels so close to her. He knows almost nothing about her. The little he knows of her people he despises. Their customs, their own self importance and conceit. Their never ending greed, and their ability to destroy everything they touch. He knows enough to recognize that her world involves elaborate dress and social constructs while his consists of the thrum beat of earth and sky. They are as different as their shades of skin with no common ground to stand on. All they have in common are quieting gasps, racing hearts, and slack limbs. And yet despite all this he can't help feeling in the moment that she is the closest person to him.
Which is why, brief moments later, he feels a keen loss as she tenses up again, climbing off him and turning away. She refuses to look at him. He reaches for her. She jerks away.
A bitter taste fills his mouth. Of course. He can be is nothing to her and he knows this. It was foolish of him to think anything would be different after the intimacy they shared. He had expected this to happen, for her to be ashamed of the moment they shared, but still her coldness strikes him like a knife to his gut. He spilled his soul to her and to be shut out now seems more than he can stand. He glares angrily, resentfully, at her back, her shaking back. Her arms are wound tightly around herself, as if to keep from breaking. Her shoulders quiver. He realizes then. She is crying, pitiful soft sobs.
Guilt strikes him hard, replacing the anger. He reaches for her again and clutches her to him. She cries harder, her tears staining hot against his skin. He doesn't know how to comfort her. He doesn't know how to make this better. He feels helpless.
He holds her tighter to him and wills her sadness away. He wills her to cease crying. She is still stricken with grief or shame, or perhaps both; but gradually her sobs fade out, getting quieter and softer. Silent now, she goes limp in his arms. He reaches down and turns her face towards him. He expects misery, anger, shame, or disgust even in her eyes. Instead what he sees is far more disturbing. Her eyes are empty, her expression flat; as if the life has bled out and all that remains is the pale shell of her skin.
She stares past him and though him. She is somewhere else completely, somewhere safe and warm in the dark recesses of her mind. Somewhere that death, fear, and war can't touch her. Somewhere that even he can't reach her. Nobody can.
Now it is just like she said before. There is nothing.
-
-
-
He is quiet suddenly aware of the others back in the caves. There is now the pressing fear that someone will come looking for them and find her in her exposed, vulnerable state. He dresses quickly, pulling his shirt back over his head. His buckskin pants were never removed so it is as simple as adjusting the front cloth and he is once again fully dressed.
She sits unmoving, her exposed flesh a fading glow in the twilight. He reaches for the slip bunched around her waist and draws the straps gently over her shoulders. She doesn't react as his fingers brush her skin. Her eyes are vacant.
He finishes dressing her; sliding the chemise, that was discarded on the floor in the heat of passion, over and down her head. Her body is limp, her arms slack and complacent as he guides them through the armholes. Next is her corset, a confusing contraption. He had her help removing it and now he is without her help to replace it.
He doesn't understand why the white man would want to strap their women into a garment that constricts the torso so severely. He wishes to leave it off her. He much prefers the natural contours and curves of her body. But he knows how particular the English women are about being fully dressed and right now the last thing he wants to do is add to her distress.
He turns it over in his hands determined to figure it out. He holds it up to her waist and begins to wrap it around her. There is a sudden glint of rage in her eyes and for a moment she comes to life, yanking the corset from him and throwing it angrily at the falls. But as soon as it is swept away in the water, disappearing from view, she becomes lifeless again.
Her tattered, torn, stained muslin dress is next. The material is surprisingly heavy and he wonders that she was able to walk so far in it all this time. He smooths the folds and wrinkles as best as he can, then helps her to her feet.
She comes docilely. He guides her with a hand on the small of her back. Reaching the others is somewhat of a shock. Everyone appears exactly as he left them. Cora and Nathaniel seem closer than ever, whispering secrets. Duncan still simmers in the corner and his fathers eyes are still disproving. It would be easy to think what passed between him and the girl was all imagined, a fevered fantasy in his head. But one glance at her dull eyes reinstates the truth and the sickening rush of guilt. He leaves her with Cora and turns to leave.
He doesn't meet his fathers accusing eyes.
-
-
-
Uncas steps out into the night, hoping the fresh air will clear his head. It doesn't. The memory of her over him, moving in the moonlight her flesh melding into his tantalizes his mind. It also consumes him with a strange mixture of guilt and anger.
On one hand he is angry to be so easily tossed aside, doomed to become nothing but an illicit memory to her. Something she can think back to with a private thrill as her future English husband fucks her underneath the covers of their proper English bed in their proper English house. The thought of another man having her sends jealous fire raging thorough his veins.
Then there is, of course, the guilt. He should have known not to touch the white women. He does know. But in that moment when she asked him to love her he didn't have the strength to say no; and now he has to live with the guilt that he wasn't strong enough for the both of them.
He is also terrified that she is disgusted with him, disgusted that a 'savage', a red man touched her. His stomach churns with a general confusion. She has turned his world upside down in a matter of days.
Out of habit his eyes scan the landscape and it is then he spots them. The light from their torches is impossible to ignore. The Huron have found them. He slips quickly back to the falls and informs Nathaniel and his father. With muskets empty and powder wet they have only one choice. They must leave. The falls are dangerous and it is likely that they will meet their death, but if they stay death is certain.
Nathaniel embraces Cora. The look in his eyes as he says his goodbyes to her is the most gentle look that Uncas has ever seen him wear. He wants to do the same with Alice. He wants to pull her in his arms and tell her not to be afraid. He wants to tell her that he will come after her. He wants to tell her that he will find her.
But the few feet between them might as well be an insurmountable chasm. Before he turns to join Nathaniel and Chingachgook he looks back at her one last time. He tries to tell her with his eyes what he cannot say aloud. I will come for you. There is a glimmer of answering understanding in her eyes. With the image of her imprinted in his mind he turns back to the falls.
He jumps.
-
-
-
The rocks are merciless. The water strong.
He is tugged along, swirled and pulled apart. The current sends him crashing into rock after rock. A blow to his chest knocks the breath from his lungs. Spinning, he face plants against a boulder. The collisions stuns him. He can't tell up from down anymore. All he sees are bubbles, the ones escaping his mouth mingle with the surf of the river. It is beautiful and peaceful. The only nagging regret that haunts him is an image of a pale girl with huge sad eyes. He struggles against the water, fighting to reach her even though part of him wants to relax and give into the swirling bubbles.
The blows have slowed him. His limbs feel like lead and his lungs scream for air. The girls image fades, fuzzing out and he realizes. He isn't going to make it.
Then he is grasped and hauled up and out onto a large rock by Nathaniel. Together they fish their father out of the water. They regain their breathe and strength before battling the current again. Reaching the shore they circle back to the falls and spread out, searching for signs of the Huron. Nathaniel finds the trail first, a series of crushes leaves. They follow it, spreading out to cover more ground.
His ribs, crushed and bruised and some broken, beat a dull throb in time with his steps. His nose bleeds. His forehead bleeds. They run on, following a heel print, a overturned stone, a ghost of a disturbed breeze. The drip of his bleeding nose and temple slow. A splash of pale color catches his eye. He reaches down to pluck from a thorny bush a scrap of wispy cloth. The pattern of delicate flowers is torn and dirty but he recognizes it right away. It is Alice's. Suddenly the ache of his body is inconsequential.
He runs faster.
-
-
-
They come upon the Huron village midday. The sun breaks through the clouds for the first time in weeks, warming their backs and heralding spring. But the warmth of the sunlight cannot chase away the chill of dread lodged in his soul.
The sight of her bound and at their mercy sends a fierce tremor through his body. His first instinct is to run to her, smashing anyone who gets in his way. Nathaniel has a different plan, a plan involving words. Uncas has never liked words and now he must wait and watch and depend on Nathaniel's words to save her. So from above on the bluff overlooking, his father and he watch.
They watch as Nathaniel makes his way down and through the hostile striking braves. They watch as he approaches the women in the midst of the gathered people.
They watch as he pleads with the wise man. They watch as the Huron argue. The words are lost on the wind but they can still see the disagreement and indecision. They watch as a decision is reached and Cora is cut free.
They watch as Duncan is tied to the stake and lit aflame. They watch as Nathaniel drags Cora away to the trees. They watch as the Huron leave, twelve in all, pushing Alice along.
He cannot watch any longer.
He touches his fathers shoulder. The touch says what his words cannot. The touch is a goodbye. He knows now that this is the beginning of the end, but he is not afraid. He runs then, toward fate. He runs to her.
I will find you.
-
-
-
He scales the rocky side of the mountain with his bare hands. Desperation and the impending sense of doom lending speed and strength to his exhausted limbs.
Reaching the top he pauses behind a corner rock, gasping for breathe. His abused legs threaten to crumple under him. He ignores this readying his rifle.
The first brave that rounds the bend receives the butt of his musket across the forehead. The one following him is shot down by his only bullet. There will not be time to reload.
Amidst the spray of bullets he takes the next two braves down, one after the other. Countering their muskets with the length of his own.
His arms ache and it is a struggle to carry the musket so he discards it on the ground, pulling his knife and tomahawk.
Then he is upon their leader. A seasoned leather faced warrior with eyes like black coal. The steel of their blades clash. He can see her now, behind the man he now fights. The sight of her lends renewed strength to his heavy limbs and he counters each blow. But this Huron is older than he, more experienced in the art of war and the trade of killing, and his beaten body is tired from the battering from the jump of the falls and the night of running through the forest.
The Hurons knife snakes out, finds an opening and strikes him. Then the tomahawk strikes next. He staggers back. He has taken a shallow gash to the thigh and a deeper one to the gut. He stares downs at his shirt blooming with blood. The Huron steps back waiting for his next move, taunting him, playing with him. He looks up and meets her eyes. Eyes that are no longer flat and vacant, they are alive. Her eyes scream at him to leave her, to save himself.
What she doesn't understand is that he cannot leave her. He needs her. He looks at her and wishes fiercely he had found the words to tell her how he feels.
He stumbles forward, slashing wildly at the Huron, pushing him back toward the ledge, toward the very edge of the cliff. They grapple, arms and legs tangling. They roll, each one seeking the others weakness. The sting of the Hurons blade strikes again. He stands up slowly. His right arm hangs uselessly at his side.
He strikes with his left. A blade slips under his ribs, twisting fire into his side and he cries out. The warrior turns him bringing a blade to his throat.
He wants so many impossible things in that moment. He wants another night in her arms. He wants to watch her hair turn from gold to white. He wants desperately another chance to tell her what she meant to him, a chance to tell her that she drove the loneliness away.
His lips move in a soundless dance even as his neck burbles and spills over. Most of all he wants her eyes to be the last thing he sees in this world. He is spun and pushed. As he teeters on the edge he sees her and and he is content. It is enough.
Then he is falling, the rush of sky all around him. He whispers soundlessly to her.
I have found you.
-
-
-
fin
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-
-
Summery: I should note that the waterfall scene is not something I made up, I am just expounding on a scene in the movie script that didn't make it on screen. All in all I'm only writing scenes that occured either in the book, script, or movie.
Warning: More smutty lemony goodness so if this turns your stomach, turn back now. Also be warned... crazy amounts of angst.
-
"What Is Said In The Silence"
Part Two
-
-
-
Last time:
"The lust drowns out everything, even the rational part of his brain that knows she will hate them after this is done; because he is a Mohican and she is a gentleman's daughter and even in this wild land, even with his hands grasping her hips and her nails coursing down his back, they are still worlds apart.
Slowly she moves, her face full of determination and need; finding her rhythm she tears him apart and he tells her everything."
-
-
-
As Uncas loves her in the half light of the night he wonders why he ever thought she was a child of the moon. Even though her hair and skin and eyes are as pale as the moon's waning glow she is none of these things. She is not ice... she is fire. She is molten heat. She is all warmth and friction around him and above him.
Her hands brace on his shoulders for leverage as she pulsates on him. Up and down, and then up again. The pleasure is so intense he can hardly remember his own name, and yet still the words pour from his mouth. A never ceasing, streaming, fountain of words.
She is the softness to his hardness, at once yielding then pushing and pulling at him. All he can do is to grasps her hips in his palms and help her. And she doesn't stop moving, riding him higher and higher; building the flame with her body as her thighs straddle his. Even as he arches into her one last time she still moves on him, reaching down to finish herself off. And it is this sight of her pleasuring herself that sends him spiraling to join her in release.
As he climaxes it is only then that he stops speaking and he is finally silent. Everything has stopped. The world has stopped spinning and he can't think or breathe, only feel. He doesn't understand the feeling. It is like running through the forest with the great elk. Fast, furious, and free. He never thought to feel such a thing with one such as her.
It scares him that he feels so close to her. He knows almost nothing about her. The little he knows of her people he despises. Their customs, their own self importance and conceit. Their never ending greed, and their ability to destroy everything they touch. He knows enough to recognize that her world involves elaborate dress and social constructs while his consists of the thrum beat of earth and sky. They are as different as their shades of skin with no common ground to stand on. All they have in common are quieting gasps, racing hearts, and slack limbs. And yet despite all this he can't help feeling in the moment that she is the closest person to him.
Which is why, brief moments later, he feels a keen loss as she tenses up again, climbing off him and turning away. She refuses to look at him. He reaches for her. She jerks away.
A bitter taste fills his mouth. Of course. He can be is nothing to her and he knows this. It was foolish of him to think anything would be different after the intimacy they shared. He had expected this to happen, for her to be ashamed of the moment they shared, but still her coldness strikes him like a knife to his gut. He spilled his soul to her and to be shut out now seems more than he can stand. He glares angrily, resentfully, at her back, her shaking back. Her arms are wound tightly around herself, as if to keep from breaking. Her shoulders quiver. He realizes then. She is crying, pitiful soft sobs.
Guilt strikes him hard, replacing the anger. He reaches for her again and clutches her to him. She cries harder, her tears staining hot against his skin. He doesn't know how to comfort her. He doesn't know how to make this better. He feels helpless.
He holds her tighter to him and wills her sadness away. He wills her to cease crying. She is still stricken with grief or shame, or perhaps both; but gradually her sobs fade out, getting quieter and softer. Silent now, she goes limp in his arms. He reaches down and turns her face towards him. He expects misery, anger, shame, or disgust even in her eyes. Instead what he sees is far more disturbing. Her eyes are empty, her expression flat; as if the life has bled out and all that remains is the pale shell of her skin.
She stares past him and though him. She is somewhere else completely, somewhere safe and warm in the dark recesses of her mind. Somewhere that death, fear, and war can't touch her. Somewhere that even he can't reach her. Nobody can.
Now it is just like she said before. There is nothing.
-
-
-
He is quiet suddenly aware of the others back in the caves. There is now the pressing fear that someone will come looking for them and find her in her exposed, vulnerable state. He dresses quickly, pulling his shirt back over his head. His buckskin pants were never removed so it is as simple as adjusting the front cloth and he is once again fully dressed.
She sits unmoving, her exposed flesh a fading glow in the twilight. He reaches for the slip bunched around her waist and draws the straps gently over her shoulders. She doesn't react as his fingers brush her skin. Her eyes are vacant.
He finishes dressing her; sliding the chemise, that was discarded on the floor in the heat of passion, over and down her head. Her body is limp, her arms slack and complacent as he guides them through the armholes. Next is her corset, a confusing contraption. He had her help removing it and now he is without her help to replace it.
He doesn't understand why the white man would want to strap their women into a garment that constricts the torso so severely. He wishes to leave it off her. He much prefers the natural contours and curves of her body. But he knows how particular the English women are about being fully dressed and right now the last thing he wants to do is add to her distress.
He turns it over in his hands determined to figure it out. He holds it up to her waist and begins to wrap it around her. There is a sudden glint of rage in her eyes and for a moment she comes to life, yanking the corset from him and throwing it angrily at the falls. But as soon as it is swept away in the water, disappearing from view, she becomes lifeless again.
Her tattered, torn, stained muslin dress is next. The material is surprisingly heavy and he wonders that she was able to walk so far in it all this time. He smooths the folds and wrinkles as best as he can, then helps her to her feet.
She comes docilely. He guides her with a hand on the small of her back. Reaching the others is somewhat of a shock. Everyone appears exactly as he left them. Cora and Nathaniel seem closer than ever, whispering secrets. Duncan still simmers in the corner and his fathers eyes are still disproving. It would be easy to think what passed between him and the girl was all imagined, a fevered fantasy in his head. But one glance at her dull eyes reinstates the truth and the sickening rush of guilt. He leaves her with Cora and turns to leave.
He doesn't meet his fathers accusing eyes.
-
-
-
Uncas steps out into the night, hoping the fresh air will clear his head. It doesn't. The memory of her over him, moving in the moonlight her flesh melding into his tantalizes his mind. It also consumes him with a strange mixture of guilt and anger.
On one hand he is angry to be so easily tossed aside, doomed to become nothing but an illicit memory to her. Something she can think back to with a private thrill as her future English husband fucks her underneath the covers of their proper English bed in their proper English house. The thought of another man having her sends jealous fire raging thorough his veins.
Then there is, of course, the guilt. He should have known not to touch the white women. He does know. But in that moment when she asked him to love her he didn't have the strength to say no; and now he has to live with the guilt that he wasn't strong enough for the both of them.
He is also terrified that she is disgusted with him, disgusted that a 'savage', a red man touched her. His stomach churns with a general confusion. She has turned his world upside down in a matter of days.
Out of habit his eyes scan the landscape and it is then he spots them. The light from their torches is impossible to ignore. The Huron have found them. He slips quickly back to the falls and informs Nathaniel and his father. With muskets empty and powder wet they have only one choice. They must leave. The falls are dangerous and it is likely that they will meet their death, but if they stay death is certain.
Nathaniel embraces Cora. The look in his eyes as he says his goodbyes to her is the most gentle look that Uncas has ever seen him wear. He wants to do the same with Alice. He wants to pull her in his arms and tell her not to be afraid. He wants to tell her that he will come after her. He wants to tell her that he will find her.
But the few feet between them might as well be an insurmountable chasm. Before he turns to join Nathaniel and Chingachgook he looks back at her one last time. He tries to tell her with his eyes what he cannot say aloud. I will come for you. There is a glimmer of answering understanding in her eyes. With the image of her imprinted in his mind he turns back to the falls.
He jumps.
-
-
-
The rocks are merciless. The water strong.
He is tugged along, swirled and pulled apart. The current sends him crashing into rock after rock. A blow to his chest knocks the breath from his lungs. Spinning, he face plants against a boulder. The collisions stuns him. He can't tell up from down anymore. All he sees are bubbles, the ones escaping his mouth mingle with the surf of the river. It is beautiful and peaceful. The only nagging regret that haunts him is an image of a pale girl with huge sad eyes. He struggles against the water, fighting to reach her even though part of him wants to relax and give into the swirling bubbles.
The blows have slowed him. His limbs feel like lead and his lungs scream for air. The girls image fades, fuzzing out and he realizes. He isn't going to make it.
Then he is grasped and hauled up and out onto a large rock by Nathaniel. Together they fish their father out of the water. They regain their breathe and strength before battling the current again. Reaching the shore they circle back to the falls and spread out, searching for signs of the Huron. Nathaniel finds the trail first, a series of crushes leaves. They follow it, spreading out to cover more ground.
His ribs, crushed and bruised and some broken, beat a dull throb in time with his steps. His nose bleeds. His forehead bleeds. They run on, following a heel print, a overturned stone, a ghost of a disturbed breeze. The drip of his bleeding nose and temple slow. A splash of pale color catches his eye. He reaches down to pluck from a thorny bush a scrap of wispy cloth. The pattern of delicate flowers is torn and dirty but he recognizes it right away. It is Alice's. Suddenly the ache of his body is inconsequential.
He runs faster.
-
-
-
They come upon the Huron village midday. The sun breaks through the clouds for the first time in weeks, warming their backs and heralding spring. But the warmth of the sunlight cannot chase away the chill of dread lodged in his soul.
The sight of her bound and at their mercy sends a fierce tremor through his body. His first instinct is to run to her, smashing anyone who gets in his way. Nathaniel has a different plan, a plan involving words. Uncas has never liked words and now he must wait and watch and depend on Nathaniel's words to save her. So from above on the bluff overlooking, his father and he watch.
They watch as Nathaniel makes his way down and through the hostile striking braves. They watch as he approaches the women in the midst of the gathered people.
They watch as he pleads with the wise man. They watch as the Huron argue. The words are lost on the wind but they can still see the disagreement and indecision. They watch as a decision is reached and Cora is cut free.
They watch as Duncan is tied to the stake and lit aflame. They watch as Nathaniel drags Cora away to the trees. They watch as the Huron leave, twelve in all, pushing Alice along.
He cannot watch any longer.
He touches his fathers shoulder. The touch says what his words cannot. The touch is a goodbye. He knows now that this is the beginning of the end, but he is not afraid. He runs then, toward fate. He runs to her.
I will find you.
-
-
-
He scales the rocky side of the mountain with his bare hands. Desperation and the impending sense of doom lending speed and strength to his exhausted limbs.
Reaching the top he pauses behind a corner rock, gasping for breathe. His abused legs threaten to crumple under him. He ignores this readying his rifle.
The first brave that rounds the bend receives the butt of his musket across the forehead. The one following him is shot down by his only bullet. There will not be time to reload.
Amidst the spray of bullets he takes the next two braves down, one after the other. Countering their muskets with the length of his own.
His arms ache and it is a struggle to carry the musket so he discards it on the ground, pulling his knife and tomahawk.
Then he is upon their leader. A seasoned leather faced warrior with eyes like black coal. The steel of their blades clash. He can see her now, behind the man he now fights. The sight of her lends renewed strength to his heavy limbs and he counters each blow. But this Huron is older than he, more experienced in the art of war and the trade of killing, and his beaten body is tired from the battering from the jump of the falls and the night of running through the forest.
The Hurons knife snakes out, finds an opening and strikes him. Then the tomahawk strikes next. He staggers back. He has taken a shallow gash to the thigh and a deeper one to the gut. He stares downs at his shirt blooming with blood. The Huron steps back waiting for his next move, taunting him, playing with him. He looks up and meets her eyes. Eyes that are no longer flat and vacant, they are alive. Her eyes scream at him to leave her, to save himself.
What she doesn't understand is that he cannot leave her. He needs her. He looks at her and wishes fiercely he had found the words to tell her how he feels.
He stumbles forward, slashing wildly at the Huron, pushing him back toward the ledge, toward the very edge of the cliff. They grapple, arms and legs tangling. They roll, each one seeking the others weakness. The sting of the Hurons blade strikes again. He stands up slowly. His right arm hangs uselessly at his side.
He strikes with his left. A blade slips under his ribs, twisting fire into his side and he cries out. The warrior turns him bringing a blade to his throat.
He wants so many impossible things in that moment. He wants another night in her arms. He wants to watch her hair turn from gold to white. He wants desperately another chance to tell her what she meant to him, a chance to tell her that she drove the loneliness away.
His lips move in a soundless dance even as his neck burbles and spills over. Most of all he wants her eyes to be the last thing he sees in this world. He is spun and pushed. As he teeters on the edge he sees her and and he is content. It is enough.
Then he is falling, the rush of sky all around him. He whispers soundlessly to her.
I have found you.
-
-
-
fin
-
-
-