What’s In A Name

“I saw you with that man again. He’s a strange one; you should stay away from him.”

“What’s so wrong with being near him?”

“I don’t trust him — some wandering nomad with an unhealthy fixation on one of this village’s most promising women.”

“He’s not as bad as you think.”

“Oh, really? Then where does he come from? What does he do? Where is his family? What is his name?”

“He doesn’t have one.” 

“Doesn’t have– How can someone not have a name?”

The smile was evident in the reply. “Sometimes there’s more to a person than his name.”

Verbal Sparring

“Hold still.”

“Ow! My leg doesn’t twist that way.”

“If you stopped struggling, it wouldn’t have to.”

“Hey, I wasn’t the one who–O-ooh! Oh! Get your hand–”

“Sensitive, aren’t we?”

“Pervert.”

“Then stop moving.”

“Grrgh.”

“…”

“Ow! Don’t pull!”

“Almost there…”

“Ouch! Stop that! Hey–!”

“Aaand… done! …What, no shocking reply?”

“…Took you long enough.”

“Heh.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

Heart

When it came to centuries, it was not a matter of survival.

Day in and day out, walking an endless road, grasping at straws you’d picked a hundred times before, paths you knew decade by decade even as they transformed themselves… it was not about conquering beasts and defeating bandits; money no longer held meaning, home no longer mattered. Lying in a bed beside a warm body, words and emotions left empty even in the deepest darkness, the sweetest ecstasy. Fear, sleep, death…

There was only life.

One step after another, breathe in, breathe out; ignore the emptiness, keep the knife in its sheathe. Head high, eyes open, hands reaching. Look forward. Keep walking…

Keep walking.

Keep breathing.

Keep being.

Lips, hands, skin… Eyes so bright they blinded; a thousand faces, all different, all the same. Hot breath, sweet words, height of pleasure…

Keep living.

There was only heart.

The Hunt

Loki: the con artist, often depicted as malevolent, bordering on evil… Liar, shapeshifter, thief, murderer… Murderer.

He certainly fit his namesake.

“Ouch! Fuck, man!”

“Sorry! My bad!” The words were unaffected and punctured by laughter, his face cruel even as he retrieved the offending ball from where it had fallen after striking its victim. From across the park, she watched the dark-haired man as he danced away back to his game, leaving behind an irate teenager rubbing a sore scalp. Of course, the kid who had been struck was no angel, but she was not disillusioned into thinking for one moment that the hit had come out of any good intentions. He was not that sort of person.

Her fists clenched as she watched him, the basketball bouncing skillfully between his hands as he twirled around another unsuspecting opponent and sunk a basket. The smile plastered on his face was malicious and failed to meet his eyes.

How easily he moved through his day… How carefree, never the worse for wear; how she would love to change that… But after all this time, she knew enough to wait. She had watched him long enough to know. Patience… Patience…

By the time he spotted her, she had already risen and started to walk away, but she did not miss the recognition in his eyes.

Good.

The Trickster God would know he was being Hunted.

Guilty Pleasures

She could count on one hand the number of times she had seen it happen before, leaving her momentarily frozen upon returning from her day-long trip to the Farrell Kingdom. All at once the thoughts of underhanded diplomats and ill-concealed disdain fled from her mind at the sight that greeted her. A smile spread across her lips.

Terrel… 

Her mind ghosted over his, feeling recognition curl around the stream of thought before receding. He did not stir. Sometimes she wondered when he slept — so skilled was he at waking before her and sleeping after. She knew sense of duty dictated that he never leave her unprotected, but somehow that had translated to him never dropping his guard even in the comfort of their bedroom. The same severity he showed to his enemies radiated behind closed doors, even if it was for her own sake. Obviously, he had expected her to stay the night in Farrell.

He was sprawled on his back, head tilted toward her with black bangs hanging in his eyes, one hand resting on the plane of his stomach while the other was tucked beneath his pillow. His mouth, normally warped by a scowl, was soft, the muscles of his face relaxed in a rare moment of vulnerability.

For once, she could see his youth.

Fingers reached out to brush the hair from his eyes, lingering at his brow before feathering through the dark locks tenderly. So precious… He would hate it if he woke to find her watching him.

Feeling sudden boldness rise in her chest, Sira leaned forward, pressing lips to his forehead where his hair had been swept away, her hand dropping down beside his shoulder. She grinned to herself, feeling mischievous triumph roll through her chest. For a man who prided himself on his wariness, he certainly slept like the de–

One clean roll and her legs were tangled, body trapped beneath familiar weight. Silver eyes bore down into her own with wry irritation.

Oops.

“Stealth was never your strong point.”

Her protest was silenced by his mouth.

Feminine Wiles

“Is it weird if I like your forearms?”

Risse could feel his eyebrow quirk at the question, looking up from sharpening his weapons to regard an otherwise silent Kit. She had been watching him impassively for the past half hour as he went from swords to daggers, sharpening and cleaning each with expert care, but had yet to speak until that moment.

“My forearms?”

She grinned, a wide mischievous bearing of teeth that made him think there was far more behind the question than she was letting on. Her eyes slid over his body appraisingly before returning to meet his gaze, and she slowly rose to her feet, sauntering over in a manner that reminded him of a cat. Yes, she was definitely up to something.

Cool fingers brushed heated skin, gliding over his wrist and up the area in question. Though he often discarded his shirt in order to train before caring for his weapons, today he had merely rolled the sleeves to his elbows, exposing the arm down to his wrists, and opted to forego practice due to the heat of the day. She had obviously made note of this.”There is something incredibly sexy about your forearms,” she drawled seductively, voice low and soft. To his ire, Risse could feel his body responding to her tactics.

However, if there was one thing he had learned throughout a lifetime of Kit, it was that when she played the feminine card there was absolutely no honest intention behind it — especially sex.

“Is that so?”

“Mm-hm.” Those hands slid upwards to grip him by the shoulders, drawing him down towards her, before floating back to rest lightly at the crook of his elbows. Leaning close, he could smell the scent of the soap she used to bathe, silken hair brushing against his cheek. The situation was getting rapidly more dangerous. Any moment now, he expected the twist. “Unbelievably sexy.”

Ulterior motives or not, he had no qualms about accepting the offer.

And then all at once she was drawing away, her fingers trailing back down his arms and across his hands, lingering on the very tips before breaking contact completely. With a sway in her hips, she retreated towards the castle without a backward glance.

What the–

Dumbfounded and irritatingly aroused, he could only watch as she disappeared within the confines of the stone fortress, never the worse for wear and deceptively empty-handed. His forearms? Shaking his head to clear away the haze she had evoked, he returned his attention to the task at hand–

–Only to realize that the dagger in his lap was conspicuously missing.

Damnit.

Weariness

At the end of the day, it just seemed like one long walk down an endless road with only gray skies above.

Opening the door of her apartment, she made little ceremony of throwing down keys and removing her shoes, before trudging to her bed and allowing herself to collapse. Darkness pressed around her soothingly, the mattress comfortable and kind to her aching body, but her eyes remained staring into the black, sprawled upon the comforter as though she would never again move. Her head spun dully.

It was not so much that the day had been a bad one, that she had spilled her coffee, singed her hair, cut her finger, or tripped and twisted an ankle. It was not that everyone seemed to be at their most irritating at the same moment, or that a trip she had been planning for almost six months had suddenly fallen through. It was not even that she had not eaten since noon and every fiber of her body had been in pain since the morning. In all honesty, she couldn’t explain what it was, but all at once she had suddenly felt as though the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders and would never relieve itself again.

She was tired. So very, very tired.

Closing her eyes in thought, she could only sigh as a heavy arm settled over her abdomen and drew her backwards. He was all heat against the chill of her body. Lips found her shoulder and she felt some of the tension ease away.

“Are you alright?”

It was a time before she could answer. “I don’t know anymore.” He nodded against the curve of her neck, silent understanding. Laying there, the weight pressed deeper still, until she felt suffocated and burdensome beneath his protection. The day would simply not end well. ”I should get changed.” Moving abruptly, she attempted to rise.

Without warning, that arm tightened like iron, dragging her fully back only to be joined by a second limb. A moment later, he was all but wrapped around her, breath echoing hollowly in her ears as he held onto her desperately. “Stay.“

Maybe she was not the only one who felt that weariness.

Hard Day’s Work

“Why me?” The sigh was loud and long-suffering, causing her chest to strain between the mattress and the press of foreign weight against her lower back. The chuckle that rang deeply from above vibrated through her spin and into her chest. Soothing hands flitted lightly over abused skin, pressing bandages down around the damage and tending to bruises with salve.

“Do I want to ask about this one?”

“Kira did it.”

Another chuckle. “Oh?”

“And a horse. Kira and a horse.”

Completely bandaged, those hands shifted to rub slow lines up and down her sides, grazing breast to hip and clouding her mind with the lure of sleep. Feebly, she reached back and swatted at them, but to no avail.

“So how did Kira and a horse tear up your back?”

The weight upon her felt calming, the press of hands rhythmic. Kit had to fight to keep her eyes open.

“He startled it, my foot got caught. Did you know that it hurts getting dragged over dry grass?”

“I can imagine.” Up, down, up, down; gentle kneading, strong fingers. Her body felt like jelly. Damn him.

“I have things to do today.”

“Do them tomorrow.”

“I have to talk to the blacksmith about my sword.”

“He knows what he’s doing.”

“What if someone comes in and sees that I’m a girl?”

“They won’t, and so what?”

She sighed, her eyes closed against the sheets. “You suck.”

Another chuckle. His weight shifted as he leaned over to kiss her chastely on the head. “I know. Go to sleep.”

Too late.

Blind Sight

There were such dynamics within humans, a range of actions and reactions that she could not all name as of yet. Despite Pax’s stories of all the ‘emotions’ one being could run through in the course of a life, she had been intrigued by the sheer volume of such manifestations: screaming and crying that could have the same meaning, silent glances that supposedly held deeper implications, a small laugh that could be far more telling than boisterous guffaws. It had been informative simply to study such creatures in their natural elements, at one moment joyous and noisy, then silent and stoic in another.

However, this was not what drew her attention.

Over the growing months amongst them, she had come to realize an even more peculiar behavior.

“Why does she cry?” she found herself asking, eyes locked on the vision before her. A man was curled solemnly around the form of his dead daughter, clutching her desperately to his chest while blank eyes stared unseeing down at the body. The child had been trampled by a horse over an hour ago, but the man refused to relinquish the corpse in the conviction of his loss. This she could comprehend: a human mourning the passing of offspring before they had served their own purpose. What was confusing was the woman sobbing loudly some feet away from the pair. Riven knew for a fact that she was neither family nor friend to the father and child, so why did she cry? Humans had an unusual predisposition to take the grief of strangers upon their own shoulders.

“She mourns for his loss.” Zephyr’s explanation did not help her confusion, causing an uncharacteristic frown to crease her brow.

“But it is his loss, not hers.”

Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him, Riven could feel when Zephyr’s eyes turned upon her, running the length of her features in an appraising manner. She knew he was deciding whether it was valuable to explain–an acknowledgement that caused her jaw to clench with a feeling she had never experienced before. She forced her body to relax and wait.

“To be a parent is a role that all humans have the potential to experience. To be a child is a role that all humans must suffer through to reach maturity. Thus, though it is the loss of one, others may think back on their own lives and understand such emotion. She cries not because the child is hers, but because if it were she would feel the same grief as the father now feels.”

…She did not understand. For once, she simply did not understand.

“Come, Watcher, let us go. We cannot mourn this loss.” Following as he turned away, Riven found herself glancing back at the trio, a frown still marring her features.

A Watcher did not always See.

Scars

The reflection in the mirror looked foreign, unnatural. Somehow between the time he had fallen into ’slumber’ and the present, the glass had warped in on itself, creating an image he no longer recognized, but was surely himself. Behind, she stood stalwart, unchanged within the traitorous glass.

Silence reigned.

A hand rose slowly, tracing the stark blemish that streaked from one temple and through an eye that had gone milky with blindness, ending on the other side of his nose. The last time he had seen himself, his face had been whole–his eyes clear. His fingers lingered on the skin, still burning with its arrival, then abruptly dropped away. Closing his eyes, he rose slowly and turned away, looking at her instead.

She smiled. For him, blood staining her cheeks, dirt smudging her clothes, exhaustion seeping through the core of her after a hard-fought battle… for him, she smiled through it all. Upon hearing of his waking, he knew she had all but plowed through the hallways to his chambers, arriving out-of-breath and wide-eyed as though he were a ghost. She had not blinked twice at the sight of him, her eyes finding his even in a reflection she no longer knew. And she smiled.

“Welcome home.”

He smiled back and felt his face tingle in acknowledgement, his blind eye filling the picture of her: tousled, injured, worn, but there.

The sight of her running towards him, the feel of her in his arms, made up for any scar he could bear.