He returns to their current hideout fair covered in blood, his sword sheathed but left insecure in its scabbard. His sword rattles in the scabbard with every step he takes.
The blood, hot and dark, is not his own. It never is. He is invincible.
She always feels so frail when he is near her. He is like a giant to her. His shoulders fair catch in the doorways, and he must bend over to keep from hitting his head on the lintels of the doors.
Her hand seeks his shoulder, finds it smooth as her own, unscarred, unwounded.
Nothing touches him anymore. He is now as impervious in the flesh as he once was in his soul.
It is she who breaks the seal on his body, she who makes him remember he is not a corpse.
They do not speak. Words have long failed them both. The world has failed them both.
She gave her heart and soul, the same way he did, to a circle of Knights that repaid her only in her own blood and the taste of ashes in her mouth.
He looks down at her, his hand rising to clasp her own. He seems to animate-- once weary, his hand fair trembles as he touches her skin. The light of her candle reflects in his eyes, and at last, he seems to notice it. His right hand moves to her candle, comes so close to the flame. Pinches.
They are alone in the darkness. Around them, the night sings its own lament.
The now extinguished candle falls to the floor and she runs her other hand along the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw.
He smiles. It might once have been a bright expression. Now, it is grim. Where once he bore the brightness of leaves changing color, he seems carved from the harvested earth and made of crumbling leaves.
Almost playfully, he tugs on one of the twin braids, like black ropes, or the links of chain she sometimes wishes would bind her, that swing beside her face. She responds in turn.
It is no accident that their lips meet.
His is perfection too pure for accidents; hers is care and craft too great.
The memories of sweetness and summer belong to him, but it is she who understands the coming spring.
They separate, needing no words to know what must happen next.
There is no armor to strip from him. He has no need for armor— if ever an arrow found his flesh, he would not die. He has no need for a shield, and little for a sword. The strength of his sinews pales in comparison to the other strengths he has gained.
The trenchcoat already gone, he must only shirk his trousers and disarm. His eyes alight on her as she undoes the laces of her simple dress and tosses it away from her.
She moves closer, her hand finding its way to the center of his chest. She walks her fingers downwards, to his navel, and lower.
He startles, shoves her hand away and grips her shoulders.
Their lips meet again, and it is not the clash of wills it was when they first reached this understanding. It is a sharing.
Neither conquers, neither yields. There is no victor here.
How could she hope to defeat him? His is perfection. She has learned this in her examinations of him. She has tested him and found him true, battled him and found him strong.
Yielding is so sweet, like the waves that crash to shore without the bitterness of salt.