I'd like to creep into the wood And see the bonnets blue, And hear the bluebells ringing loud, I wish I could -- don't you?
t's another day, another month, and another time for people to show up in the well. You'd better go rescue them! Never mind the fact that you woke up with a flower in your hands.
It's probably fine. Don't mind it at all. It's not like it's hard to ignore a little flower.
(At least, not until the effects start to kick in. Better go rescue the people in the well before they do.)
Oh, right. Even the people in the well have flowers, so... things are going to be a little ridiculous very quickly, when all of those side effects kick in. Have fun!
Welcome to Awash's Twenty-fifth event log, everyone! Further information on this event can be found here at the OOC post. You are welcome to make your own logs and posts for this event!
If there are any questions, please ask them here. Thank you!
[ It takes a moment, two moments, three for her to come to after having smacked her nose onto his chest so thoroughly. That definitely hadn't been the most graceful of topples, after all, but then again they never are. She would have gotten off of him as quickly as she could have normally, scurried away and left. But today has been anything but normal from the flowers to walking the canal with him, and being tripped by a tree isn't a standard in any world. There must be some dramatic irony or fate at play, that this happens after declaring that she wants to keep him safe.
Pyra places a hand upon the ground, fingers pressing into the soil just to the side of his chest, and she uses that to lift her top half just enough to ease the pressure off of his torso. This also means that her lower half is pressing just a tad more down upon him, but hey, you win some, you lose some.
Getting a good look at him, however, and making sure that he's alright, she draws in a quick breath as she flushes. ] ...Lord Berkut?
[ Also normally, she would have been immediately apologized. However it seems that her affection has made her so blind that she's momentarily captivated by how close they are, stricken by him beneath her, and beckoned by his warmth. She doesn't-- want to pull away further, and she doesn't want to apologize for being close to him. ] Are you hurt...?
[ He coughs. Sweet air fills his lungs, though there's now an uncomfortable weight pressing down on his legs. Well, breathing is more important. ]
Are you . . . ?
[ Is she all right? He thinks he took the brunt of the fall, but one can never be too sure. Blinking, Berkut peers up at Pyra. His hands fall away to the sides, and he thinks for a split second that he wouldn't mind staying like this for a while longer. Alas, he greatly minds that Pyra has to touch the soil and dirty her hands. ]
[ Stammering, she pulls away and off of him, one leg then the other, to kneel beside him. To make up for her delay in removing herself form him, she even moves to help him, bringing a hand behind his shoulders to prop him up. ] Here...
These trees are pests, aren't they? [ See, she's trying to make light of the situation. She just really doesn't want him to be angry and start hacking away at the trees in response! ]
[ Nodding in gratitude, he climbs onto his feet. He looks down at the root that must have ripped them, then promptly back to Pyra. ]
So long as you weren't injured, it matters little. Your house is close, correct?
[ While his words are beginning to resemble his usual way of speaking, his voice remains softer than the norm. After that embarrassing tumble, it would be best to leave this behind and see to Pyra's lovely garden. There, perhaps they can . . .
Either way, this has jarred him enough that he keeps his hands to himself. It took more courage than he'd like to admit to have held her hand the first time. He'll have to save what's left for when they reach their destination. ]
[ ...But she still wants to hold his hand. What little disappointment she has with that thought, though, comes as goes as quickly as spring, soon replaced with the summer of being able to walk with him. It's just the simple things for which she can be grateful; no-- she must be grateful, even if it's only this, only being beside him. ] Mm, it's this way...
[ They'll pass a block and then turn a corner, and-- there it is, her townhouse in Bluo, looking as remote and neat as ever. It looks exactly as any other occupied house might from the outside, well-groomed, some flowers planted on either side of the door. She doesn't lead him in, but rather around to the back. ] This way.
[ The garden isn't visible from the front, and it's the single contribution she's made to make any changes to her own home. Various colored (and miscolored) flowers have been planted into strict, neat arrays-- only two of each exist within the garden, as if Pyra had only planted it to showcase whatever samples of flowers she could find. In truth, it had been an experiment: one of the first things she did when she had made the crown and discovered its properties, she had tried it out on all sort of samples of seeds she could find. The result is two very meticulously plotted rows of flowers, humble and simple, as if daring to break out of the mold she's made for this formation would be taboo.
Yup, this is what she's calling a garden.
....However, bringing Berkut to this reminds her of the time she had entered his heart and had seen a true garden. ] ....I... suppose it's not much, is it? [ She links her hands behind her back, glances away. ] Compared the ones you would be used to in palaces.
[ He looks down at the modest assembly of flowers with an expression of mild surprise. It doesn't grow beyond that. Given limited resources, Berkut supposes he should have expected this. Although it isn't what he had picture din his mind, he doesn't feel any disappointment.
Rigel has no palaces, and gardens as people tend to picture them don't exist in the castle. No, the most beautiful garden he's ever seen lies elsewhere in the Empire behind a manor, cared after with much love by—
This is perfect. If the garden were too beautiful, he might still be hesitating. As it is, Berkut shifts to face Pyra. ]
It's enough. You've done a fine job.
Pyra . . . If I may—
[ The words catch in his throat. Swallowing, he extends a hand. ]
[ She's holding her breath, watching him as he looks around the small not-quite garden, thinking, fearing for one moment that he'd be far more disappointed. But instead he praises it, he turns, ...and he extends his hand. He could be asking her anything at all, and she would still be staring at him, enchanted by his eyes on hers. ]
A.... dance?
[ Here? Without music? Without anyone else around? With... him?
He's asking her, he wishes to dance with her, and she answers. ]
The matrix of energy within her flutters nervously-- no, excitedly? She's not even sure anymore. She has no heart, no lungs, but her breath still catches within her throat, and she's sure that a real heart would be beating rapidly within her chest for each inch she moves nearer to him. She outstretches her hand, placing her fingers within his palm, enjoying the feel of his hand within hers once more.
She knows how to dance, and indeed she's already shared a few dances with others within Chroma. But this is... it's different. In a private setting like this, this is something that only the two of them will have together. ] It would... be an honor, to share a dance with someone like you.
[ Ah, that sounds too formal, too impersonal. And the feelings within her that are so much stronger than that. ] ...No, that's not it. [ She smiles to herself, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, her expression softens further. ]
Just like that, the fear that she might reject him dissipates. Berkut's smile widens. He doubts she'll ever know how happy she has made him with her acceptance; but she has, so much so that he forgets his words.
They will dance here on their own time, away from the prying eyes of the derisive Rigelian court and those prone to gossip in Chroma. Here, he needn't be concerned about how others judge him—for here, there stands the one person around whom he can be himself . . . no matter how much of a disappointment he's shaped up to be.
His once pounding heart now rests within him, contented, as he falls into position. He's danced many a time, so he can't make a mess of this. It's perhaps the first time since this encounter that he's moved with anything resembling confidence. ]
[ She hand going to his shoulder, the other outstretched with his, the dance begins with a single step followed by another. They are not guided by music itself, but by the melodious emotions within-- rather, she is. And rather than any drum or brass, the energy within her feels like a cello, a piano, a harp, one note or hum echoing into the other. Their steps become seamless, synchronized, soft upon the grass, quiet like the world around them, until everything else fades but them.
She cannot tear her eyes from his own, his smile-- who knew he could smile like that? Certainly not she, and how blessed she is to be able to see it. He seems more at ease than he's ever been, as if he were suited for secret dances in a notgarden just as much as he is for conquest...
And the most shattering change these flowers bring is that suddenly she wants to help him obtain that goal. That if she could be the weapon he wield to conquer the land, if he would ask, if he would accept her aid, she would not say no. She would do all in her power to help him obtain the throne. For the feeling that is within her heart, this consuming, burning, blinding emotion, is none other than...
She falls into whatever last turn or spin he leads her into, and when pulled back to him, she stays closer, the hand falls from his shoulder to his chest, her movements slow, her gaze lowered, distant, reserved-- scared?
If what she's feeling here is-- for him, then... then she really hasn't learned anything, has she? But now that she has these feelings, she cannot think of any other way of living. ] ....Lord Berkut. [ She calls his name, timid, swallowing. ]
[ Berkut spots the shift in her mood as soon as her hand slips from his shoulder. Concern rolls over him in waves and he furrows his brow. She seems cagey all of a sudden, and he hasn't a clue as to why. Why does she hesitate to look at him?
His hands, tingling and warm with anticipation, still rest on her arm and waist. ]
[ It's... comforting, to feel his hand upon her waist, she can feel a part of his gloved hands upon her skin, holding her steady. ]
I... [ She can't in good conscious simply-- dance with him, smile with him, and pretend that none of what she is doesn't matter. Not when she feels as if she's about to say something she shouldn't, the words feeling as if they're becoming butterflies upon her tongue, just ready to take flight and let lose.
But she feels as if she speaks, she will ruin everything.
They continue to sway in their dance, turning every so slightly, and her fingers curl upon is chest, bunching a bit of the thick fabric into her grip. ] You... might have guessed, that I am not human.
[ He might have guessed that. He could have guessed many things. In reality, he would have fleeting thoughts and summarily dismiss them as inconsequential, so the truth of the matter is that he didn't guess much of anything.
One thing is for certain: even if he subconsciously suspected that she wasn't human, he couldn't have grasped the truth on his own.
Despite this, he doesn't stop swaying with her. The movement of his body is built on muscle memory; at this speed, he doesn't need to think about the next step. It's a small fortune in an otherwise confusing situation that has his mind crawling to a stop. ]
[ She wants to continue dancing with him. She wants to continue holding him, she wants it to be only them, she wants to continue being with him.
She doesn't pray, but she hopes... that this will not push him away. She simply does not want to feel as if living is a constant lie to those she most cherishes. ] It's... we were created as one. We are... daughters of the Architect, the god of our world.
[ She lifts her gaze up to him, feeling now more anxious than before. ] And I.... Mythra and I, we...
[ She draws a breath, and her shoulders shake along with it. ]
For not telling you sooner.
[ Why, why did she not ever tell him sooner? It seems so silly that she didn't, so ridiculous. The man that stands before them now, they would tell everything to him. They would give everything they could to him. They would want him to have everything, everything that he's ever wanted, everything that he's ever thought of, everything that's ever made him smile.
Breathlessly, she repeats: ] We're sorry. We--.... only wished to dance with you, a-and hold your hand, and we... still did not tell you. We are sorry, for being selfish, we-- [ He can stop her at any time. ]
If she's managed to get this far in her confession, it's because her words have struck Berkut speechless. Watching Pyra with an unblinking gaze, it feels like he's seeing her—and Mythra, somewhere there—for the first time. A weapon, she said. A tool.
He's in love with a tool? Not even another human being, but a pair of daughters created by a god. Coming from a world where the worst abominations to walk the earth are still the rotten shades of the dead, he doesn't know where to begin with processing this news. But his mind is fixed on a singular point.
He's in love with a tool.
He's in love with Mythra—with Pyra—so deeply that it tears at him to consider being otherwise, to imagine a time where he can't hold her and dance with her as they've been doing. Seeing her smile brings him joy like no other. Seeing her like this fills him with dread, and the selfish fear that she might abandon him begins to consume him.
He loves her. Both of them. And it is a most shocking realization, for he's never given his heart to more than one person at a time in his life. Knowing this, isn't it enough that his heart remains steadfast?
Berkut stops. He keeps his proximity to Pyra, refusing to let her go. With that, most of his confidence is spent and he takes a moment to gather himself. When he speaks, it's done quietly. ]
. . . What difference does it make? You—both of you—are still the only one I wish to dance with here. If my being human displeases you, I must beg your reconsideration.
[ You—both of you—are still the only one I wish to dance with here.
And.
If my being human displeases you, I must beg your reconsideration.
Her eyes widen, caught up in the way he still continues to be by her, to not reject her, to stay; and not only that but from his words it seems that he is the one that seems to think that she will leave him, that he is the one undeserving when that couldn’t be farther from the truth. ] Lord Berkut...
[ Warmth washes over her like heated honey, her thoughts spinning in useless directions and taken away by the wonderful notion that he might— ]
[ She smiles, she shakes her head gently, she closes her eyes. It’s incredible that she can find her voice in, for her breath is all but taken away by the mere sight of him. He’s strong and sincere in ways she can only admire, and the more she thinks of him, the more her feelings grow. Looking up at him once more through her lashes, it’s a complex mix of both longing and adoration and guilt— always guilt— that dances within her eyes. ]
There is nothing in this world that could take me from your side.... [ She whispers to him as if these are words only meant for him, as if he is the only one that should know them regardless if they are in private. ] for I want to give you everything.
[ More words bubble upon her tongue from the want to tell him exactly everything that’s good and wonderful about him: how he stands like an unmovable mountain in the face of a chaotic world, how his sense of honor and duty is second to none, and— yes, even how handsome he is to her, his strong jaw and piercing gaze, his wide shoulders, his strong arms that hold her and make her never, ever wish to step away...
Her palm leaves his chest, reaching up to his cheek instead. Soft as silk, warm as a hearth, it rests there, thumb brushing just beneath his eye, tilting his face towards her. ]
[ Instead only three words tumble from her lips like snow down a mountain, waves upon a shore, and rays from a sun, unable to stop them or take them back as soon as they’re spoken: ]
All of Rigel are the children of Duma, but he is no weapon smithed by the War Father himself. He's hardly a weapon at all. Perhaps he was sharp, once; now he's like the blunt end of a worn lance, unable to pierce the wall that's been standing before him since the Deliverance's second wind. Berkut has never been deeply religious. Even so, he can't help but feel that Pyra deserves better than him—and this is precisely why he must do better to erase the unfounded guilt in her eyes.
He recalls that nothing is ever given in the Empire. It is earned, yet Pyra expresses a desire to give him everything. Somehow, against all reason, he believes her.
What does it matter if she's a tool? The loving words that slip out from those lips come from a place of heart. Swallowing, he lifts a hand—numb from the nerves and his own pounding heart—to lay over Pyra's.
(Something tells him that he shouldn't. But this feels right, more right than anything else ever has in his life.) ]
Three words spoken with a smile in return, spoken freely to her, for her, as if he's already given her everything in the world to her in return. And he might as well have for the way her eyes light up with surprise and hope and excitement and--
And she feels light, she feels weightless, she feels like the clouds above, soaring, and she wonders what is this feeling that could be so wonderful--
The answer comes a moment later when his hand lays over hers at his cheek as if to keep her touch there: happy. She feels... happy. Happiness, joy, excitement, breathlessness, all incurred by three words and the sincerity in which he speaks them, the softness in which he looks at her, the tender touch that his gloved hand presses into hers. ]
[ She says them again, because she can, because she must, because there are no other words that exist any longer. She sees his smile, his lips... And before she knows what she's doing, she's standing on her toes to reach his height, simultaneously guiding his face down to hers, her lips but a hair's breadth apart from his. His warmth, his scent, his presence, all near her, things she can know and feel about him, things she only wants to know more about. ]
I love you. [ She repeats them once more, this time a whisper, each syllable spoken like a felt paintbrush against his bottom lip--
All pretense falls away when she kisses him. Softly, tenderly, lightly, chastely.
Kisses him, pulls away, and then kisses him again... this time more earnestly, purposefully, firmly, lingering, feeling a flutter of warmth traverse through her. She shouldn't have this, she doesn't deserve this, but she's giving in because she want, wants this, wants him, wants to keep him safe and happy and how he holds her, she wants him to hold her more closely--
Now she's breathless, now her cheeks are flushed. It's overwhelming, this feeling. ]
I love you. [ She can say it as many times as he needs to hear, as many times because he feels the same, and as many times because they are spoken without fear or sorrow.
Her other hand moves up to his shoulder, to his neck, nails lightly raking along his skin to the back of his short hair, and-- when her lips return to his a third time, he will feel her smile along with it. ]
[ He feels the smile against his lips, and something about it—the fact that she's pleased, happy—draws a breathy laugh from him. How long has it been since he's laughed like this? Not since he came to Chroma. Even longer than that, perhaps.
His hand slides away from hers to settle on her back. His other hand joins the first before he leans in to return the kiss, humble and chaste.
When their lips part, the look he gives her is one of utter adoration. ]
If it's you, I may be able . . .
[ To succeed, to rule. To be something of which she can be proud. ]
[ She doesn’t ever wish to stop holding him, even if realistically she knows that would be impossible. His hands upon her bare back feels as smooth as healing stones, and his lips when he leans down to return the kiss are like petals. So soft, so light; she wonders if he’s hesitating, or holding back...
She almost misses his murmur, spoken as if his thoughts have leaked through. He may be able to.... what?
Ah.
She recalls how distraught he had felt earlier, of his supposed failures and being but a nephew to the emperor.
Shaking her head, she whispers back to him reassuringly, swaying along with him. ]
....You don’t have to be anything but yourself. Noble-born or not, crown or not. It is you who I... who I love. [ She’s said it again, but the words have no less value than before. ] But whatever you do wish to become... Please— I want... I wish to be there.
[ She wants him to know that what her feelings for him are unconditional.
But with that thought another comes along. She wants to be there— there, with him. Anywhere with him. Yet they’re from two completely different worlds. If he leaves, if he vanishes, then what? ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
t's another day, another month, and another time for people to show up in the well. You'd better go rescue them! Never mind the fact that you woke up with a flower in your hands.
no subject
Pyra places a hand upon the ground, fingers pressing into the soil just to the side of his chest, and she uses that to lift her top half just enough to ease the pressure off of his torso. This also means that her lower half is pressing just a tad more down upon him, but hey, you win some, you lose some.
Getting a good look at him, however, and making sure that he's alright, she draws in a quick breath as she flushes. ] ...Lord Berkut?
[ Also normally, she would have been immediately apologized. However it seems that her affection has made her so blind that she's momentarily captivated by how close they are, stricken by him beneath her, and beckoned by his warmth. She doesn't-- want to pull away further, and she doesn't want to apologize for being close to him. ] Are you hurt...?
no subject
[ He coughs. Sweet air fills his lungs, though there's now an uncomfortable weight pressing down on his legs. Well, breathing is more important. ]
Are you . . . ?
[ Is she all right? He thinks he took the brunt of the fall, but one can never be too sure. Blinking, Berkut peers up at Pyra. His hands fall away to the sides, and he thinks for a split second that he wouldn't mind staying like this for a while longer. Alas, he greatly minds that Pyra has to touch the soil and dirty her hands. ]
Can you stand?
no subject
[ Stammering, she pulls away and off of him, one leg then the other, to kneel beside him. To make up for her delay in removing herself form him, she even moves to help him, bringing a hand behind his shoulders to prop him up. ] Here...
These trees are pests, aren't they? [ See, she's trying to make light of the situation. She just really doesn't want him to be angry and start hacking away at the trees in response! ]
no subject
[ Nodding in gratitude, he climbs onto his feet. He looks down at the root that must have ripped them, then promptly back to Pyra. ]
So long as you weren't injured, it matters little. Your house is close, correct?
[ While his words are beginning to resemble his usual way of speaking, his voice remains softer than the norm. After that embarrassing tumble, it would be best to leave this behind and see to Pyra's lovely garden. There, perhaps they can . . .
Either way, this has jarred him enough that he keeps his hands to himself. It took more courage than he'd like to admit to have held her hand the first time. He'll have to save what's left for when they reach their destination. ]
no subject
[ They'll pass a block and then turn a corner, and-- there it is, her townhouse in Bluo, looking as remote and neat as ever. It looks exactly as any other occupied house might from the outside, well-groomed, some flowers planted on either side of the door. She doesn't lead him in, but rather around to the back. ] This way.
[ The garden isn't visible from the front, and it's the single contribution she's made to make any changes to her own home. Various colored (and miscolored) flowers have been planted into strict, neat arrays-- only two of each exist within the garden, as if Pyra had only planted it to showcase whatever samples of flowers she could find. In truth, it had been an experiment: one of the first things she did when she had made the crown and discovered its properties, she had tried it out on all sort of samples of seeds she could find. The result is two very meticulously plotted rows of flowers, humble and simple, as if daring to break out of the mold she's made for this formation would be taboo.
Yup, this is what she's calling a garden.
....However, bringing Berkut to this reminds her of the time she had entered his heart and had seen a true garden. ] ....I... suppose it's not much, is it? [ She links her hands behind her back, glances away. ] Compared the ones you would be used to in palaces.
no subject
Rigel has no palaces, and gardens as people tend to picture them don't exist in the castle. No, the most beautiful garden he's ever seen lies elsewhere in the Empire behind a manor, cared after with much love by—
This is perfect. If the garden were too beautiful, he might still be hesitating. As it is, Berkut shifts to face Pyra. ]
It's enough. You've done a fine job.
Pyra . . . If I may—
[ The words catch in his throat. Swallowing, he extends a hand. ]
May I have this dance?
1/2
A.... dance?
[ Here? Without music? Without anyone else around? With... him?
He's asking her, he wishes to dance with her, and she answers. ]
no subject
[ Her cheeks color already.
The matrix of energy within her flutters nervously-- no, excitedly? She's not even sure anymore. She has no heart, no lungs, but her breath still catches within her throat, and she's sure that a real heart would be beating rapidly within her chest for each inch she moves nearer to him. She outstretches her hand, placing her fingers within his palm, enjoying the feel of his hand within hers once more.
She knows how to dance, and indeed she's already shared a few dances with others within Chroma. But this is... it's different. In a private setting like this, this is something that only the two of them will have together. ] It would... be an honor, to share a dance with someone like you.
[ Ah, that sounds too formal, too impersonal. And the feelings within her that are so much stronger than that. ] ...No, that's not it. [ She smiles to herself, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, her expression softens further. ]
I would love to share a dance with you.
no subject
Just like that, the fear that she might reject him dissipates. Berkut's smile widens. He doubts she'll ever know how happy she has made him with her acceptance; but she has, so much so that he forgets his words.
They will dance here on their own time, away from the prying eyes of the derisive Rigelian court and those prone to gossip in Chroma. Here, he needn't be concerned about how others judge him—for here, there stands the one person around whom he can be himself . . . no matter how much of a disappointment he's shaped up to be.
His once pounding heart now rests within him, contented, as he falls into position. He's danced many a time, so he can't make a mess of this. It's perhaps the first time since this encounter that he's moved with anything resembling confidence. ]
no subject
She cannot tear her eyes from his own, his smile-- who knew he could smile like that? Certainly not she, and how blessed she is to be able to see it. He seems more at ease than he's ever been, as if he were suited for secret dances in a
notgarden just as much as he is for conquest...And the most shattering change these flowers bring is that suddenly she wants to help him obtain that goal. That if she could be the weapon he wield to conquer the land, if he would ask, if he would accept her aid, she would not say no. She would do all in her power to help him obtain the throne. For the feeling that is within her heart, this consuming, burning, blinding emotion, is none other than...
She falls into whatever last turn or spin he leads her into, and when pulled back to him, she stays closer, the hand falls from his shoulder to his chest, her movements slow, her gaze lowered, distant, reserved-- scared?
If what she's feeling here is-- for him, then... then she really hasn't learned anything, has she? But now that she has these feelings, she cannot think of any other way of living. ] ....Lord Berkut. [ She calls his name, timid, swallowing. ]
no subject
His hands, tingling and warm with anticipation, still rest on her arm and waist. ]
What troubles you?
no subject
I... [ She can't in good conscious simply-- dance with him, smile with him, and pretend that none of what she is doesn't matter. Not when she feels as if she's about to say something she shouldn't, the words feeling as if they're becoming butterflies upon her tongue, just ready to take flight and let lose.
But she feels as if she speaks, she will ruin everything.
They continue to sway in their dance, turning every so slightly, and her fingers curl upon is chest, bunching a bit of the thick fabric into her grip. ] You... might have guessed, that I am not human.
But you should know that I am... a weapon.
no subject
One thing is for certain: even if he subconsciously suspected that she wasn't human, he couldn't have grasped the truth on his own.
Despite this, he doesn't stop swaying with her. The movement of his body is built on muscle memory; at this speed, he doesn't need to think about the next step. It's a small fortune in an otherwise confusing situation that has his mind crawling to a stop. ]
A . . . what?
1/2
[ She wants to continue dancing with him. She wants to continue holding him, she wants it to be only them, she wants to continue being with him.
She doesn't pray, but she hopes... that this will not push him away. She simply does not want to feel as if living is a constant lie to those she most cherishes. ] It's... we were created as one. We are... daughters of the Architect, the god of our world.
[ She lifts her gaze up to him, feeling now more anxious than before. ] And I.... Mythra and I, we...
no subject
[ She draws a breath, and her shoulders shake along with it. ]
For not telling you sooner.
[ Why, why did she not ever tell him sooner? It seems so silly that she didn't, so ridiculous. The man that stands before them now, they would tell everything to him. They would give everything they could to him. They would want him to have everything, everything that he's ever wanted, everything that he's ever thought of, everything that's ever made him smile.
Breathlessly, she repeats: ] We're sorry. We--.... only wished to dance with you, a-and hold your hand, and we... still did not tell you. We are sorry, for being selfish, we-- [ He can stop her at any time. ]
no subject
[ Yes, now seems like a good time.
If she's managed to get this far in her confession, it's because her words have struck Berkut speechless. Watching Pyra with an unblinking gaze, it feels like he's seeing her—and Mythra, somewhere there—for the first time. A weapon, she said. A tool.
He's in love with a tool? Not even another human being, but a pair of daughters created by a god. Coming from a world where the worst abominations to walk the earth are still the rotten shades of the dead, he doesn't know where to begin with processing this news. But his mind is fixed on a singular point.
He's in love with a tool.
He's in love with Mythra—with Pyra—so deeply that it tears at him to consider being otherwise, to imagine a time where he can't hold her and dance with her as they've been doing. Seeing her smile brings him joy like no other. Seeing her like this fills him with dread, and the selfish fear that she might abandon him begins to consume him.
He loves her. Both of them. And it is a most shocking realization, for he's never given his heart to more than one person at a time in his life. Knowing this, isn't it enough that his heart remains steadfast?
Berkut stops. He keeps his proximity to Pyra, refusing to let her go. With that, most of his confidence is spent and he takes a moment to gather himself. When he speaks, it's done quietly. ]
. . . What difference does it make? You—both of you—are still the only one I wish to dance with here. If my being human displeases you, I must beg your reconsideration.
1/4
And.
If my being human displeases you, I must beg your reconsideration.
Her eyes widen, caught up in the way he still continues to be by her, to not reject her, to stay; and not only that but from his words it seems that he is the one that seems to think that she will leave him, that he is the one undeserving when that couldn’t be farther from the truth. ] Lord Berkut...
[ Warmth washes over her like heated honey, her thoughts spinning in useless directions and taken away by the wonderful notion that he might— ]
no subject
There is nothing in this world that could take me from your side.... [ She whispers to him as if these are words only meant for him, as if he is the only one that should know them regardless if they are in private. ] for I want to give you everything.
no subject
Her palm leaves his chest, reaching up to his cheek instead. Soft as silk, warm as a hearth, it rests there, thumb brushing just beneath his eye, tilting his face towards her. ]
no subject
I.... love you.
[ How dare she. ]
no subject
Really?
All of Rigel are the children of Duma, but he is no weapon smithed by the War Father himself. He's hardly a weapon at all. Perhaps he was sharp, once; now he's like the blunt end of a worn lance, unable to pierce the wall that's been standing before him since the Deliverance's second wind. Berkut has never been deeply religious. Even so, he can't help but feel that Pyra deserves better than him—and this is precisely why he must do better to erase the unfounded guilt in her eyes.
He recalls that nothing is ever given in the Empire. It is earned, yet Pyra expresses a desire to give him everything. Somehow, against all reason, he believes her.
What does it matter if she's a tool? The loving words that slip out from those lips come from a place of heart. Swallowing, he lifts a hand—numb from the nerves and his own pounding heart—to lay over Pyra's.
(Something tells him that he shouldn't. But this feels right, more right than anything else ever has in his life.) ]
. . . And I, you.
1/2
Three words spoken with a smile in return, spoken freely to her, for her, as if he's already given her everything in the world to her in return. And he might as well have for the way her eyes light up with surprise and hope and excitement and--
And she feels light, she feels weightless, she feels like the clouds above, soaring, and she wonders what is this feeling that could be so wonderful--
The answer comes a moment later when his hand lays over hers at his cheek as if to keep her touch there: happy. She feels... happy. Happiness, joy, excitement, breathlessness, all incurred by three words and the sincerity in which he speaks them, the softness in which he looks at her, the tender touch that his gloved hand presses into hers. ]
no subject
[ She says them again, because she can, because she must, because there are no other words that exist any longer. She sees his smile, his lips... And before she knows what she's doing, she's standing on her toes to reach his height, simultaneously guiding his face down to hers, her lips but a hair's breadth apart from his. His warmth, his scent, his presence, all near her, things she can know and feel about him, things she only wants to know more about. ]
I love you. [ She repeats them once more, this time a whisper, each syllable spoken like a felt paintbrush against his bottom lip--
All pretense falls away when she kisses him. Softly, tenderly, lightly, chastely.
Kisses him, pulls away, and then kisses him again... this time more earnestly, purposefully, firmly, lingering, feeling a flutter of warmth traverse through her. She shouldn't have this, she doesn't deserve this, but she's giving in because she want, wants this, wants him, wants to keep him safe and happy and how he holds her, she wants him to hold her more closely--
Now she's breathless, now her cheeks are flushed. It's overwhelming, this feeling. ]
I love you. [ She can say it as many times as he needs to hear, as many times because he feels the same, and as many times because they are spoken without fear or sorrow.
Her other hand moves up to his shoulder, to his neck, nails lightly raking along his skin to the back of his short hair, and-- when her lips return to his a third time, he will feel her smile along with it. ]
no subject
His hand slides away from hers to settle on her back. His other hand joins the first before he leans in to return the kiss, humble and chaste.
When their lips part, the look he gives her is one of utter adoration. ]
If it's you, I may be able . . .
[ To succeed, to rule. To be something of which she can be proud. ]
no subject
She almost misses his murmur, spoken as if his thoughts have leaked through. He may be able to.... what?
Ah.
She recalls how distraught he had felt earlier, of his supposed failures and being but a nephew to the emperor.
Shaking her head, she whispers back to him reassuringly, swaying along with him. ]
....You don’t have to be anything but yourself. Noble-born or not, crown or not. It is you who I... who I love. [ She’s said it again, but the words have no less value than before. ] But whatever you do wish to become... Please— I want... I wish to be there.
[ She wants him to know that what her feelings for him are unconditional.
But with that thought another comes along. She wants to be there— there, with him. Anywhere with him. Yet they’re from two completely different worlds. If he leaves, if he vanishes, then what? ]
(no subject)
1/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)