Difference between revisions of "Logs:It Tolls For Thee"

The bright ringing never ceased; not really, not at first. A basso rumble like the very bones of the earth itself, churning, melting, recast in fire and forged with the starfire wrought of brilliant bellows - a vibration of his soul, a gut-trembling counterpart to that single bell struck high and clear and hanging: the note that started and did not stop. Not soon.

Bloodied hands in meat, against the high arch of that first neckridge, the tall length of headknobs -- oh, THERE, a thumb drawn to a spot unerring, relieving an itch that was thought to be high on his own brow, not on...

Dragonhide flashing, young teeth tearing, a formidable presence comforting and terrifying and new and ageless. Jhorinth. Jhorinth. Jhorinth. Vibrato staccato against the spine of his soul, riveting and melting and turning metal into itself, dark ripples against the stainless steel of Xhaeon's soul.

Against the variegated soul of N'hax, the once-and-future Smith, now-rider, now lifemate, now...

...now oil against his skin, no, against his hide, no; the pulse just behind his eyes too-fast, ichor-sped, thready with youth and young veins; an itch THERE, and the copper brilliance under his hands. Beautiful. Not even handsome; beautiful, terrifying, that hide, under his hands, stretched over his-- no, Jhorinth's--

« You. I. We are. » The resonance of that basso thrum hit again, a counterpoint to the melody, that clear ringing in his ears fading like smoke from a battlefield: it lingers, at first, and then slowly dissolves, leaving behind the battered remains and calling the crows.

No, not the crows. Never the crows. The way is barred, a solid presence, a fierce ferocity that burns, Faranth, a migraine blistering, fingers lifting to press against temples, and--

« N'hax. »

Brought to the present, and suddenly there isn't shock, and the ringing in his ears is gone. Sleepy dragonet is sleepy, but fiercely protective, sheer willpower keeping him conscious, yearning towards the touch of his lifemate, for the surety that touch brings. Xhaeon-- N'hax, now, forever-- lifts both hands, placing them against the slippery slide of hide.

"Jhorinth."

Peace and surety and relief wash over both, a soothing balm against the thin cuts of integration, an oil to protect this newly-forged bond against rust and ruin.

« We are. » Sleepily insisted, childish but with the promise of More - of so much more - « We will be. »

A freedom realized to be sacrificed on the altar of presupposed future, such a glorious, disastrous, unforetold brilliance of... fate. At once a completion and a sundering, this moment, cast as a pair of blades twin-wrought from cleansing fires, drenched in a draught of saltwater tears for that which-isn't-to-be. The decision isn't as hard as it would be - it's not a decision after all, is it? Not really. No less could a man gouge out his own eye, or cast off a hand, or a piece of his very soul.

"Sleep. We will be."

An oath, taken and given.