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The depths of the Shadowfell were spinning, the faint wind that shifted through the darkness turning into a roar of whipping energy and malice, and faintly on the tail-end of the gale, Cyrene could hear screams. Voices she knew that she recognized, calling out in terror and anguish, but they were out of reach through the veil, through the portal she had taken that had led her deep into Shar's domain. Every last inch of her screeched out in warning, making her stomach tight, her breathing ragged, but she could not move from where she had fallen to her knees. There would be no exit from the hellscape, no way out from the perversion of the material plane that choked with malice and death, and she had long since surrendered her hope of seeing the sun again.
"A perfect shot. You've finally managed some success."
The voice carried through the roaring, as if it was being spoken clearly right into her ears in a gruff and deep tone, and Cyrene winced underneath the praise as each word tore open her scars until not a single one remained closed. Blood trickled freely from the scores of open wounds, across her face, her back, her arms and hands, soaking through the fabric of her clothes and making her shudder as she tasted copper and salt. Each once-healed injury now burnt like an open flame, raw and made new as if the Mistress of Pain herself had bore her dagger to see her carved open, and the agony wrenched the air from her lungs as she buckled at the waist beneath the intensity.
Two figures stood amidst the gale, untouched and staring at a distance amongst the floating ebony and violet rocks that rose up like mountains in the shadow. The aasimar glowed faintly, wholly unharmed, but she was a smear of silver-white luminescence that was more mist than a true shape at the edges of the ranger's vision. The soul-cage that had once imprisoned her was broken on the ground as she rose from her knees and donned her armour, but the sight was not one of miraculous recovery. Instead, she stood silent and staring, her silver-blue eyes disappointed in their judgment, and she turned away from her to disappear amongst the shadows.
The other, however, stood tall on the outcropping in front of her, and though she did not wish to raise her head, she felt her eyes lifting all the same to find him. A tall human man, clad in that strange, unfitting purple and gold regalia from her dreams that suited a paladin or a noble far more than it ever could a ranger. Yet her captain remained ever familiar with that tawny skin, that thick head of black and grey hair and well-kept beard. Tattooed on his left cheek were a flock of birds, soaring on an unseen breeze up his face and towards his temple, matching the placing of the wide scar that had ripped across the other side of his face.
His left eye wept blood of his own as he stared down at her with that flat, black stare of his, and she held his gaze, helpless to move or look away from him as the memory of the arrow she had put there flickered in and out existence. There was no mistaking the fact that her captain was dead, even if he was standing so clear and strong and alive before her. She had stepped over his corpse, had felt his blood squelch underneath her boots on her way out of the grounds, and though he haunted her every waking moment, she never once doubted her aim. She had killed him, she had rid herself of the sole obstacle in her way to freedom, and she would never forget that he was dead and gone no matter how much her dreams twisted with the memories he had drilled so deep into her brain.
"You'll be a ranger yet, now, won't you? Trained and proper, broken-in and tailored, just as I made you." It was pride that suffused that gruff tone, that thick Baldurian burr, but the disgust Cyrene felt in response to it was bone-deep. Her skin writhed across her tense muscles, aching to leap free of her body to toss itself into the mad, twisting depths of the Shadowfell beneath where she was still kneeling. Every word was a lash, making her flinch as she felt them strike out across her flayed and bleeding back and adding more to the puddle of crimson that was ever-widening beneath her legs, "And what a prize you've caught to haul home over your shoulders. A single arrow, perfect form, and no hesitation. You're just the weapon I knew you could be."
"A true ranger never shoots twice."
The lesson was burnt behind her eyelids, the final thing he had ever spoken to her, and the very first creed she had learned, accepted, and perfected. She could feel that single arrow's tail, brushing against the crook of her elbow as she cradled her kill, and the laughter in his voice made her wish she could retch. Her vision blurred as she dropped her eyes, and the broken corpse laid out across her legs was cold, limbs twisted from the sudden drop when her missile had pierced clear through her back, into her heart, just as she had been taught. She shouldn't have had the power to pierce the thick armour plate she had been wearing, she would never have had the time to draw and aim in the instant she had known she needed to kill, but it hardly seemed to matter as wide, unseeing olive-green eyes stared up at her and condemned her success.
The ever-dutiful Sharran, clad in the armour of a Dark Justiciar, still gripping down on the Spear of Evening that she had been about to plunge into the chest of the aasimar, of Selûne's daughter, was laying dead in her arms. She had not seen her draw her bow, had not realized she was being targeted, and the second she had lifted her weapon, Cyrene had let her arrow fly. The surprise on her face was pure, and though she had been dead before she had hit the ground, her eyes had widened in a look of betrayal that cut the ranger clear to her soul, and broke what little twisted remnants of her heart that still somehow was beating in her chest.
It was a traitorous sound, that heartbeat, and Cyrene loathed it with every fibre of her being as she felt her shoulders shake from the pain of the sobs that ripped through her body. Her arrow, her success, her responsibility to the many over the few, and whatever victory she had momentarily gained over the Lady of Loss would forever be wholly empty. She had killed many Sharrans in her lifetime, and she had never felt any sense of shame or guilt for the corpses of humanoids or monsters that she had piled up along her pathway as a ranger and a hunter, but this was not the same as her self-imposed mission. She had hoped it would end differently, and that hope was now her total undoing.
Death was her occupation, and pain was an old friend that she had long since learned to live side-by-side with... But the cavern inside of her chest was wide and gaping, and the tears were acid as they trickled over the open wound on her face and carried blood down over her cheek and jaw. Her body was shaking as she wept, each sob choking in her throat as she huddled helplessly over her cold, stiffening burden. Her hands grasped down, slick with blood that was both her own and that of the Sharran she was cradling, and she stared at the blood-streaked lips that should not have moved, but formed words all the same as those beautiful, dead verdant eyes stared at her in agonized recognition of her murder, "I thought we were going to save each other."
The world became a flurry of movement the second Cyrene opened her eyes, and the ranger was momentarily entirely detached from herself as she tore away from her bedroll and shot to her feet. She ducked her head and pushed herself out of the tent that was cutting her off from the outside world and blocking the starlight, the fresh air that she was so used to sleeping under. Her body moved of its own will, carrying her in a blind flight from the edges of the camp, and she obeyed those frantic instincts without question as they took her into the surrounding treeline. The haphazard camp that she and her comrades made sat between the well-trodden path to Rivington and the banks of one of the Chionthar's many offshoots, and she sought the riverside as every piece of clothing she wore was damp and hot and clinging to her body like a second layer of flesh.
Cyrene wasn't entirely sure how far she ran, but it didn't much seem to matter as the moment she felt water covering her bare feet she was dropping to her knees gladly just off of the bank. She welcomed the sting of the sticks and rocks biting through the fabric of her trousers and into her skin, allowing it to give her some grounding even as she clawed blindly at her tunic. Liquid was flowing down her back in familiar acidic rivulets, trickling from uncountable openings of flayed flesh and muscle and making her tremor and heave for air as she struggled to rid herself of the accursed piece of clothing. She dropped it the moment she had it peeled away from her torso, uncaring of where it went before she was reaching with her now free hands to scoop as much water as she could hold to start to wash herself clean again.
Every handful was magic, icy and fresh as it splashed on her burning skin, and the ranger only distantly felt her breath catching in her chest as the warring temperatures only made the shaking that had set up in her body worsen. The world surrounding her had become oddly hazy, narrowing her focus to the task of cleaning off the blood that was sticking to her and leaving it almost impossible to take in anything out of her immediate orbit. She tasted copper on her tongue, souring her mouth unbearably, but she swallowed down the bile and the rising need to vomit as her nails tore at the wet flesh that only felt more stained, more filthy the longer she focused on it.
That damned voice was echoing in Cyrene's ears still, rolling like far-off bursts of thunder, and she ducked her head, grinding her teeth together in a vain effort to drown the sound out. Her head was pounding with the familiar tell-tale ache of a migraine, and the volume of the screaming she was so used to rose to a deafening crescendo that blocked out coherent thought and rationality until she was merely a mess of instinct and automatic movement. She needed to be clean again, to scrub and tear off the taint of the death she'd wrought, the blood that was still pouring so freely from the wounds that never seemed to wholly heal no matter how much time passed since she had last been beaten senseless.
It was a familiar routine to the ranger now; waking in a rush, scrambling for the nearest source of fresh water and drenching herself from head to toe until she remembered how to think again. Too many times to count she had melted into the shadows away from too-bright campfires and cold, judgmental eyes of strangers, desperate to remember the sanctuary of the wilds, where she could be alone, be absolutely apart and untethered from the civilized world that no longer had a place for her no matter how much her occupation demanded its necessity to her life. She was filthy, wounded, deformed, play-acting as a human in a desperate bid for a taste of normalcy that she had never once known in her entire waking existence.
Bowing almost wholly at the waist, Cyrene held her breath as she cupped water in her hands and pressed her face into her waiting palms. It stung at the bridge of her nose, but she watched it come away remarkably clear as it poured through her fingers in a steady trickle. The thrown light from the campfire in the distance from whatever poor soul on watch for the night was more than enough to let her see by, and there were only the faintest traces of blood swirling about the water that she was kneeling in, rather than the puddle of crimson she had almost expected to see coming off of her body.
"Cyrene?"
The voice came from directly behind her, and Cyrene felt her body lurching instinctively, pushing herself up and back to her feet as her right hand shot across her waist in search of the handle of a knife that was no longer there on her belt. She had run from the tent without a single weapon on her person, and almost as soon as she came to that realization, her empty hand clenched down tightly as a burst of magic came to life in her palm. The cold of winter sank its fangs into her flesh as frost bloomed in the air about her fingers, and she gripped down instinctively on the shard of ice she manifested like a dagger when she spun half on her heel to face the threat.
Raised hands and wide, worried olive-green eyes were the first things she recognized, and for a brief moment, Cyrene forgot the pain in her hand from the fey-magic that swirled about her wrist in answer to her thoughtless command for a weapon. She wasn't entirely sure how she had missed the sound of being followed through the brush, how she had entirely forgotten that her awakening and her rush of a flight would of course be noticed by her new bedmate, but the evidence that she had entirely lost her head stood barely a stone's throw away. A mixture of shame and rage closed her throat, made her hand momentarily squeeze down around the ice in a vain want to throw it aside, but no force on the plane would be capable of tearing a weapon out of her hand now that she had one to protect herself.
"Cyrene--"
"Don't. Don't come near me. Don't touch me." Instantly Cyrene felt her feet pull her backwards at the call, and the sound of worry, of soft, gentle affection sent her hackles rising with a mixture of trepidation and age-old pain. She retreated automatically into the water, unthinking in her need for distance between herself and her hunter, though she couldn't quite convince herself to look away from that bewitching pair of eyes that followed her every movement. She watched them widen, taken aback and stung by the harsh demand, but they flickered somewhere behind her in the next moment, darkening with worry again before she followed after her like a shadow and drew another thoughtless snarl from her throat, "I can and will hurt you, and I won't be able to stop myself. Do not come near me."
"Then I'll go backwards, so long as you step forward. You're already up to your knees, and lack of swimming experience be damned, if you go under, I am coming in after you even if it means we both drown." The voice rang hard in her ears, stern and uncompromising in its own demand of her, and she heard the cacophony in her skull breaking apart at the unexpected addition. It was louder, cutting and sharp in proof that it was real rather than just another layer to be added to the storm that raged in her head, and she hesitated despite herself in realization that she was being told the truth. Only a few steps had been more than enough to show how deceptively deep the river ran, and she knew from experience that less than a handful more would have her treading water if she was not careful.
When Cyrene felt herself pause, uncertain of advancing, she watched as her hunter stepped backwards neatly to give her the room to come forwards and out of the water. Her hands were still raised in a gesture of peace, and she had no sleeves to conceal any weapons in, and no belt hung across her waist to hold familiar sheaths, either. Of course, a cleric didn't need steel to be dangerous, and a single word, an easy flourish could bring magic to her hand in an instant if she so chose violence. Cyrene knew that just as well as she knew her own capabilities, as she hadn't needed to use a summoning word to bring her ice knife to her hand when her blood knew the bite of winter just as it knew she needed air to breathe.
Slowly, tentatively, Cyrene permitted herself to move forward, and she watched carefully as each single step was met with another in retreat. It did not take much to come away from the water and back onto dry land, though the strange dance that had been started between herself and the cleric did not end until she had put at least five paces between herself and the water's edge. For a moment, she felt herself ready to question, pushing against the veil of instinctive need to fight and flee, and she glanced up again to find those eyes watching her with emotion burning brightly back at her. Worry, pain, longing, affection, each and every one easy to read and as harsh to absorb as a knife against the ribs.
The fear drained from Cyrene's body as if she was jerking awake from another nightmare, and the exhaustion that took its place turned every last joint in her body to grain as the magic in her hand vanished in a hiss of mist. She didn't resist the weight of it, sinking heavily to her knees as her hands lifted to grasp at her head when she bowed it deeply. She was trembling uncontrollably from the crash of adrenaline, and she heard the gravel shifting underneath the cleric's immediate approach at her collapse. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the reaching hand as she was joined on the ground, and she flinched automatically, shrinking in on herself to avoid the contact before she heard herself rasping out weakly, "D-Don't touch me. Please... Please, don't touch me."
The reaching fingers almost instantly pulled backwards as if she had burnt them somehow, and Cyrene heard the long, trembling breath before they vanished entirely for a moment. She heard silt and stone shifting, and then those same hands re-entered her view to be placed with slow deliberation on the ground in front of her knees. She looked up wearily, uncertain at the prompt obedience to the demand, and the face she saw looking back at her, pained and hesitant, aching with longing even as she held herself back cut her to the quick. "Until you tell me otherwise, I won't touch you, I promise... But I won't be chased away, either, understand? I'm staying right here no matter how long it takes until you're ready. I won't leave you. Ever."
"Shadowheart." Cyrene breathed her name like prayer, aching from the depths of herself as she let every last bit of tension that had curled her entire body into a tight, painful spring go. The promise was heatedly spoken, delivered through gritted teeth like a strange mixture of an affirmation and a threat, and yet she felt herself wholly comforted by it all the same. The tears she had been biting back stung as they forced their way through, and she made no further attempts to fight them even as she whispered through a rapidly tightening throat, "I'm sorry... I-I'm... I'm sorry..."
"Don't. Don't apologize. Not for this. Not to me." Shadowheart's voice was soft despite the denial, and Cyrene twitched helplessly as she heard it dangerously close to her ear. She couldn't look up again, too afraid to know exactly where she was in case she felt the need to draw away from her, but she was sharply cognizant of her presence nonetheless. The cleric was leaning towards her, protectively shielding her as she bent forwards in a futile attempt to make herself smaller, make herself less, but she still was keeping to her word and not permitting an inch of contact between them, "Just remember, that no matter what, I'm here for you, all right? I'm here, right here, and there's not a damned thing in this life or the next that will tear me away from you."
Cyrene wasn't entirely sure if it was a laugh or a sob that ripped its way out of her throat, but she didn't quite care which it was as she bowed as far as her aching back would let her go. Her fingers interlaced behind her head instinctively, holding the posture that kept the expanse from neck to waist unprotected, and she shuddered again as her breathing came heavy and ragged. The fervency in Shadowheart's voice tore at her innards, scraping at the guilt and the self-loathing that the nightmare, the memory, continued to burn deep into the core of her being. She hadn't done a thing to earn such care, such devotion, and her voice was raw when she forced out speech again, "You deserve better than me. Better than this."
"All I want is you, Cyrene." Shadowheart's answer came immediately, sharply, and Cyrene felt herself looking up helplessly to see her scowling at her in the flickering lances of firelight in the distance. Her eyes, too, were wet and glossy with tears, but there was wrath in the curl of her lips rather than pain. She did not shift again, did not reach to close the distance when she knew it was unwanted, but that didn't deter her an ounce from continuing fiercely, "And if we're going to debate who deserves what, it's you who deserves far better than me, and I won't hear arguments to the contrary. But so long as it's me that you want, I will be staying right where I am. Now, and always."
Those three words had been said to her before, outside of the unconquerable depths of the Shadowfell, and Cyrene felt something distant, something heavy in her chest shift at the sound of them being spoken again now. It was a promise she believed, because she trusted that Shadowheart would not lie to her, but to absorb the words was something she still struggled to do. But more than the promise was the remembrance that the nightmare was not her reality, that both her blade and her bow had never been used, and that the damnable weight Shar had cast upon both of their heads in her realm was far, far less on the material plane.
Shadowheart remained where she had knelt down with her, close enough that it would take barely a twitch of her hand before she was touching her, but she remained at heel despite the tension in every inch of her body that begged for movement. The demand had stilled her as much it had obviously hurt to be told so plaintively not to offer the comfort she was so used to giving, but until she was given permission, Cyrene knew that she would not reach for her again. She had understood from the start even if she hadn't entirely known the reason, and she had always been careful never to overstep out of concern for her well-being.
Pain was all she knew, and to seek or receive comfort from touch was something that the ranger was still trying to learn despite herself. Hands were far more keen to hurt than they were known to give healing or reassurance, and it hadn't been until this very journey that she had really had the chance to learn what it was like to travel with a willing cleric. Even then, Shadowheart had always been careful, requesting permission, giving due warning when she needed to make contact, and showing nothing but patience when she flinched or withdrew away from her instinctively.
Now, Cyrene found herself wanting to lean forward, to close that whisper of distance between them even as her skin crawled at the mere thought of allowing a hand to be laid on her. The scars throbbed across her back and her face, draining both her energy and her resolve, and she felt herself holding her breath as she shifted carefully, closing her eyes as she pressed her forehead into Shadowheart's shoulder. She felt the cleric tense in surprise, uncertain as she pushed forward first, then she both heard and felt her sigh before she was turning her head, nuzzling gently into her hair and pressing the softest kiss to her temple.
Shadowheart reached slowly, allowing every last shift of her body to be clearly telegraphed as her fingertips brushed carefully against her elbows when Cyrene leaned ever so subtly closer. The tension in her shoulders relaxed, and Shadowheart bit her lower lip as she cast a quick, searching glance over her body. Deep, open furrows had been scratched into her arms, shoulders and sides from her desperate attempt to undress, and though she'd made some attempt to wash the sweat off of herself, she was still bleeding freely. Her right hand however drew her worry as she noted the lack of colour in her palm and fingers, and she could not help the concern that lowered her voice when she whispered against her ear, "You've hurt yourself... Let me make it better."
Cyrene made no protest as she felt Shadowheart slowly, carefully pulling her hand up so she could examine it, but she knew already from the lack of sensation what it was she would find. The sudden spell-casting and the surge of raw magic she hadn't tried to suppress had burnt into her skin, leaving her painfully frostbitten in evidence that what she had summoned had been too strong even for her own hands. Winter magic was a horribly bitter thing, sapping all it touched of emotion, energy and life, and she hadn't been wearing any protection as she usually would when she had summoned her ice knife.
The ranger couldn't entirely feel Shadowheart's careful and exploring touch as she brushed against her palm to study the full extent of the damage that she'd wrought on herself. Her palm had suffered the worst of it, but her fingers too felt numb and stiff, unable to really close again now that they had been eased open. She heard Shadowheart's soft murmur against her ear as she began to pray aloud, and from the corner of her eye she watched the two hands that were cradling her own begin to glow faintly with divine magic that surged into being with a familiar and telltale hum.
Shadowheart breathed with relief as she watched the azure mist cascading out from her fingers, encircling Cyrene's hand entirely as streaks of silver arrested her eyes in proof that the words she was reciting were being heeded. She still was not entirely sure what to make of the change, but some strange part of her was glad to know the Selûnite magic, as it felt comfortingly warm against the biting cold that had injured her ranger so badly. It flowed of its own will now, encasing Cyrene's fingertips, drawing down over her palm, her wrist, and shooting down still further in search of the wounds it seemed to know needed healing.
The strict, demanding direction that she had once known to force her healing outward was no longer necessary, and Shadowheart followed the magic's pull instead now as her eyes glanced across her arm, seeking out each and every injury she had already catalogued. That wave of blue and silver sparks almost seemed to sizzle across the long scratches Cyrene had dug into herself, smoothing down the ragged and torn skin and pulling the wounds closed in a gentle flicker of light. The tide surged on, across the back of her neck, down her spine and sides to her waist, and she felt Cyrene's trembling exhale as she stiffened momentarily at the unexpected healing.
For a heart-stopping moment Shadowheart thought to pull back, to exert control again as she felt Cyrene's breathing catch against her shoulder, but the redheaded woman relaxed as she surrendered her weight and leaned entirely into her front. The cleric bit down harder on her lower lip, feeling her eyes sting as the gesture of unconditional trust buried itself fully into her chest like a blade. Too many times already she had felt her cringe, heard her apologize for pulling back as if she felt guilty for her instinctive want to retreat, and each and every time she had tried to reassure her and show both her patience and her understanding. Now, she felt the magic fading, finding no more hurts that it needed to heal, and she forced herself to settle even as she heard herself asking despite her better judgment now that she had done her work, "Can I hold you?"
"Yes." The answer came weakly, small and childlike as Cyrene ducked her face into her neck to hide her expression even as she found herself pressing in closer before she even had a chance to embrace her. Shadowheart reached almost at once, but her every movement remained cautious as she wrapped one arm about her hips and the other across her shoulder to spare her back entirely from any sort of touch. She barely allowed herself to squeeze down, as if she was somehow trying to both touch and embrace something made of spun glass, and the show of care made speaking even more difficult as she felt her nuzzle her cheek to hers, "I... I-I'm--"
"Hush. No more apologies." Shadowheart cut her off with a soft murmur, and Cyrene swallowed down hard as she felt herself obeying without thought or complaint. Her hands twitched in her lap, warm again from the healing and no longer numb, but she couldn't find the strength to reach back. If Shadowheart minded, she showed no sign, and instead she sat up taller, cradling her impossibly close with firm and gentle hands. She turned her head, her lips trailing across her cheek, her temple, brushing lovingly over the rounded tip of her ear before she was whispering into it, "I have you now. That's all that matters."
Cyrene could clearly remember having been held like this in Last Light not even two tendays ago, with unfathomable care, with fierce protectiveness, and just as she had then, she couldn't quite stop herself from wondering over it. Every single day since the Gauntlet, since Moonrise and Last Light had felt like a lifetime unto themselves, and she was breathless from the rapid change that had dragged her along with it. She had never felt so out of control, uncertain or lost before, not in many a year, and her voice unlocked as she heard more than she realized she was confessing openly, "It was a nightmare. I keep dreaming of the Shadowfell. I haven't stopped dreaming of the Shadowfell."
"I'm here." The words felt odd on her tongue, heavy with promise, with understanding, but anything else that Shadowheart wished that she could say choked in her throat and refused to come out. The guilt was tangible, reaching out with sharp, bloodstained claws to dig into their chests and yank cruelly at their hearts, but she knew it was yet too raw to offer anything that even remotely resembled healing. Every single night the memory tainted their sleep in reminder of what had narrowly been avoided on both their parts, of the mistakes they had only barely stopped themselves from making, and Shadowheart ached to pull her tighter, to hold her closer as she ground out through gritted teeth, "I'm here. You're here. We both are... And I love you, damn you."
"It feels like they're all open again... Bleeding freely as if they never healed to begin with. Maybe they never truly did. I can't be sure anymore. I can't tell the difference when I wake up, and I just... I want so badly to be clean." Cyrene was aware of the oddest sensation of exultation and horror as the truth came out from a painfully tight throat, and she could not truly tell if she had ever allowed herself to speak such a thing aloud before. She was far more used to hiding on the banks of the rivers alone, scrubbing herself raw as if one day she would flay her skin clear from her bones to be free of the accursed sensation of living in a body that had never quite felt like it wholly belonged to her, "Am I still bleeding? Would you tell me if I was?"
That distant note in her voice drew motion before she could think better of it, and Shadowheart drew back slightly, reaching gently to cup Cyrene's face to tilt it upwards so she could see her expression clearly. Her summer-green eyes were dull in the faintly thrown firelight, turned down to avoid meeting her gaze in patient, weary expectation of hurt or rejection. Too many times in their lives they had bowed their heads underneath the pain, conditioning themselves to the abuse, to the cruelty, and from the shared memories that lit up like bonfires in her own mind now, she understood that Cyrene believed herself utterly broken from her experiences. The thought made her wish to bare her teeth, and she ceded to the wrath as she whispered hotly, "Every wound that you will ever know from today on will be healed by my hands... And every last fool that dares to even so much as think about trying to hurt you will also die screaming at my hands."
For a brief moment, as Cyrene's eyes flickered uncertainly across her face at the promise, Shadowheart wondered if perhaps she'd overstepped. There was unspoken meaning in those words, unspoken and perverse pride in knowing that all of her stolen years as a Sharran meant that she was uniquely capable of keeping such a vow to excess if she put herself to the task. It was something she knew Cyrene would not like to hear, would not like to think of, especially knowing such an oath was spoken for her sake, and as the anger simmered, she knew she couldn't truly blame her if she reacted with disgust. Her hatred for Shar was as righteous as any Selûnite's, and she still was not entirely sure why she had stayed her blade when she had known her for what she was the moment they had met.
It surprised Shadowheart slightly then when Cyrene's eyes closed instead, and she turned her head to press her face more securely into her palm. She breathed in deep, still trembling from the exhaustion, from the phantom pain that was arcing out over her scarred body, and Shadowheart held herself as still as she possibly could manage. The self-restraint was a strange and bitter thing, a reminder of something she had prayed to have in excess once, and now something she no longer wished to embrace, but that sharp demand and the following pleading whisper Cyrene had forced out to not touch her could not be ignored no matter her feelings.
Shadowheart knew she would only cause more pain if she indulged, and that was the sole thing she had wholly forbidden herself from ever doing again. She had endured too much agony, had inflicted even more of it under the grasp of her former goddess, and if she could spare one soul from tasting pain again, the woman in her arms would never know more if she could help it. Holding herself back from touching her until she asked for contact was something she could manage even if it burnt, and so she held herself in place, watching as Cyrene nuzzled her hand, and slowly, painfully slowly, finally raised one of her own to tentatively touch her wrist.
It was a slow and careful caress, as if Cyrene was just as much afraid of giving touch as she was receiving it, and Shadowheart was silent as she felt her fingertips slide down the back of her hand. She circled the edges of her incurable wound with limitless affection, barely applying pressure in that soft, tender way of hers that betrayed her unspoken concern of activating the curse if she dared to be too deliberate. When she spoke, she felt her lips forming the words against her palm as much as she heard her murmur with an ache that resounded in her voice, "I'd give more than I think I know to be able to make the same promise."
"I don't think it matters much whether you make the oath or not... You'd do it simply because you could, not because you promised you would. You already tried once, and I haven't forgotten that even if you're keen to pretend otherwise." Shadowheart reminded her quietly, and she watched as Cyrene's eyes darted downwards, guilty and ashamed at the mention of her behaviour outside of the mausoleum. The cleric was rather sure that she would never forgive herself for threatening her comrades in her panic, but like Karlach and Wyll, Shadowheart did not intend to hold it against her. Rather, she fought a smile instead, and she moved her thumb gently across her red-streaked cheek as she mused softly, "I'm only following your example now... I can't do anything else, I think. I don't quite know how to. It's not as if I have anything else to go on these days, and you've already proven that throwing my lot wholly in with you won't end badly. Look at how far we've come already."
"From one mess straight into another, over and over...?" Cyrene asked tiredly, but she did not flinch or withdraw as Shadowheart carefully brushed the lingering wetness about her eyes away. The acceptance made Shadowheart brave, though she remained gentle as she stroked across her face, avoiding the bridge of her nose as she followed every last trail her tears had made and wiped them clean. When she finished, she merely switched targets, tucking her bangs behind her ears to give her a clear view of her face, and Cyrene exhaled slowly, controlling the want to shiver as she continued with a small shake of her head, "Even at the start, you were eager to point out that I had a tendency to focus on almost everything but what you considered a priority."
"And I was wrong to do so. The evidence of that spoke for itself over and over again in Reithwin, and even if it didn't, I don't think I'd mind much. I'm glad that I've followed you this far. I want to follow you even farther." Shadowheart wondered when the words she had begun in jest turned deadly serious, when she had realized that underneath all of the sly pragmatism that Cyrene used to mask her goodwill, that she just liked following after her regardless of the outcome. She quickly realized she simply trusted the woman's judgment, that she liked to act based on what felt right rather than what could close the distance between herself and her goals faster. "No matter where it is we need to go, so long as you're the one leading, I'll follow you anywhere. At your side is the safest place I've ever been."
"Safe?" Cyrene repeated the word as if she had never said it before, and Shadowheart watched as she tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing in thought and wonder. She felt her stare like a caress as it wandered over her face, studying her intently in that sharp, cutting manner like she was a puzzle she dearly wanted to solve. Something pulled in her summer-green gaze, returning the focus and clearing the distance that had forced her away, and Shadowheart almost jumped when she felt her hand brush across her face, having not realizing she had even lifted it before she was muttering softly, "I don't... quite know, honestly. Being safe. I'm not sure that I've ever known that, not truly... But if this is what safety is, I'll be glad to learn it with you."
"That list of things I'm going to be teaching you is going to be a very long one, isn't it?" Shadowheart felt the words catch in her throat as the look of longing in Cyrene's face made her want to rage and weep simultaneously, and the sincerity of the statement made her breathless. She cupped her cheek the same way as she held her hand, as if she was afraid that any strength in the touch would make her disappear, and the cleric couldn't resist turning her face, pressing her lips carefully to her palm before she whispered, "Let's get you up and back to the tent... Even if you can't get back to sleep tonight, at the least you can rest in my arms until morning."
"Just a moment..." Cyrene sighed as she knew full well there wasn't any point in arguing with the better judgment. She was exhausted and heavy, and the chill of the water had buried into her body and was making her shiver in remembrance that she only had her breast band on above the waist. The tunic she had been wearing was floating somewhere in the river behind them, but she didn't mind the loss of it as she raised her eyes to the trees that encircled the bank. She whistled once, the familiar two-note call quieter than usual, but her companions knew her just as well as she knew them, even if they would never truly admit to the need to spare her pride.
Shadowheart jumped in alarm as Huginn dropped from the tree where he had been silently perching, and she wasn't entirely sure if she even wanted to begin to guess at how long the eldest brother had been there, watching over them both and waiting for his mistress to call for him before he showed himself. He hopped over to Cyrene's side, and the cleric blinked as he extended a claw, revealing that he had plucked a fresh tunic from her pack and had brought it with him as if he knew she would have the need of it. The exchange was wordless and practised, and Shadowheart could only murmur as the woman shrugged the fresh garment over her head while the raven stood watchfully at her side, "You do this often."
"I tried to warn you that I would be a poor bedmate." Cyrene reminded her ruefully, and she was aware of a flush making its way up her neck even as she pulled the warm fabric down to its limits over her waist. Huginn plucked gently at the sleeve closest to him, unrolling the fabric up to her wrist with a careful tug of his head, and she turned her hand over, brushing her fingertips against his chest feathers in a gesture of gratitude. He leaned into the affection, tilting his head slightly to the side as he cast a sharp look to her face, and she offered the raven a small smile before she sighed to him, "Go and take your rest with your brother. You've looked after me enough tonight, and as grateful as I am for the watch, you need to sleep as much as I do."
If there was an argument to be had, it happened in perfect silence, and Shadowheart wondered if the ranger could hear the thoughts of the animals she had established the bond with, or if perhaps she simply just knew them well enough that speech wasn't truly needed between them. Huginn lowered his head after a moment of this strange exchange, and he brushed his beak across the back of her hand before he was leaping up into the air with a few powerful strokes of his wings. He disappeared in a handful of moments, his shadow-black form melting into the thick of the trees, and Shadowheart watched the way that Cyrene looked out after him, her smile soft, and her eyes glittering with gentle affection before the ranger was speaking quietly, "He trusts you, you know."
"He does?"
"You didn't know he was there. He didn't warn you off from approaching me, and he didn't alert me to you chasing after me, either. He let you come close on purpose. That's not much like him." Cyrene explained with a wry smile, and she watched as Shadowheart blinked, looking out again after him with wonder and uncertainty painted clearly across her features. The ravens never failed to sleep within her reach, always ready to be at her side in an instant should she need them, and their brand of protectiveness was as fierce as Fenrir's when they were called to the task. "They all know I'm not capable of differentiating in the moment. The panic is all-consuming, just like the pain can be at times. The tadpole has made it much worse than usual, too, blurring the lines between memory and nightmare... And still, he let you follow me. He wouldn't have done that if he didn't trust you."
"I worried he wasn't fond of me. He's not much like his little brother." Shadowheart confessed with a weak laugh she couldn't entirely help, and Cyrene's answering smile was reassuring. Muninn was a troublemaker in feathers, always in the thick of things and eager to be seen and known, but Huginn was far more aloof, and she hadn't entirely been sure if it was disapproval that urged his distance, or something else entirely. To hear Cyrene's assertion that she was trusted was something that struck her with unexpected weight, and she pushed herself awkwardly to her feet, flushing a little as she extended her hand to help the ranger up as well, "Still, if you say so, I know better than to question if you're sure, especially when it concerns your animals."
Cyrene said nothing as she studied the hand reaching for her own for a moment, but she knew that the urge to deny it was only something born of pride. She was exhausted, mentally and physically, and she needed the aid, and the thought was only slightly bitter as she allowed Shadowheart to pull her upright. For the cleric's credit, she only lingered long enough to make sure that she was steady before she was withdrawing, and Cyrene felt her hand close around hers before she could completely pull back, causing the both of them to startle. The blush in her face turned hotter, and she looked away, both horrified and exasperated with herself before she forced out weakly, "Don't let go, please. I-I'd... I'd like to stay this way for a little bit longer."
"And you said I'm the one who's bad for your health?" Shadowheart chuckled a little, and she was aware of that quiet yearning rearing its head all over again as she watched Cyrene's eyes dart to the ground, unable to look up in her embarrassment. Entirely undeterred, Shadowheart lifted her hand, brushing her thumb carefully across one of the many scars that crisscrossed their way over the back of it. Snapped bowstrings, fangs, claws, slipped daggers and magic had all left their marks on her skin, and she pressed her lips carefully to her knuckles before she murmured softly, "The way you ask, as if you think I have the capacity to ever say no to you... Don't worry. Until you say otherwise, I won't let go of you. I mean that."
"I know you do." Cyrene felt her throat tighten as she watched the way Shadowheart glanced up at her face, with her eyes soft and warm in the dim firelight from the clearing behind them both. There was an incredible warmth flickering in that olive-green stare that made her breathless, that stripped her bare in a manner that was both incredibly frightening, and yet strangely comforting, too. She was seen in that gaze, known wholly as she never before had been, and doubted she ever would be again in her lifetime. The acceptance there made her shiver, stopped her heart in wonder, and all she could really do was return the pressure about her hand when she whispered raggedly, "I believe you. I trust you, Shadowheart."
They were relatively simple words, but the weight of them was immense on her shoulders and Shadowheart cherished that burden even as some part of her still doubted if she could keep her feet beneath it. It was a priceless treasure to cradle in her hands, and more than ever, the cleric felt that taint of the Shadowfell clinging to her body, to her skin, as she wondered for the hundredth time if she was worthwhile of the gift she had been given. The doubt was choking, painful, and she nuzzled carefully against the hand she was holding, grounding herself to the warmth before she whispered against her palm, "Thank you."
Focusing on those harsher emotions was difficult when Shadowheart felt the way that Cyrene clung so tentatively to her hand, as if she was still somehow afraid that she would be shaken off. As if she would let go at once if she was told to, no matter how much she might have wished to hold on otherwise. Knowing full well she would, and hating that thought as much as her own, Shadowheart parted her fingers, carefully interlacing them and squeezing down deliberately. For one night, at least, she could swallow the bile, and she did so harshly as she kept her grip firm and sincere, "Come on, love. Back to bed. You don't need to sleep, but you do need to be somewhere warm until sunrise. I'm afraid it's not up for negotiation."
"I've no complaints." Cyrene answered with a tremulous sigh, and she savoured the warmth that spread through her previously frostbitten skin as she allowed herself to be led away from the riverbank. Sleep would likely not find her easily for many days now that she knew her nightmares had returned with such a vengeance, but she felt strangely unbothered by that fact as Shadowheart kept her slow and steady pace back to their newly shared tent. It would not be hard to relax in their combined bedrolls, lingering in the comfort of the blankets and the steady, unquestioning presence they shared together.
It was incredibly odd, how quickly, how fiercely she had come to need this half-elf who was holding her hand with such deliberate affection, but Cyrene had long since abandoned the desire to rationalize the situation. That moment on the beach in the sunlight, when she watched the way the Sharran cleric had shaken the sand from her raven-black braid as she stood on unsteady feet and blinked in the brightness of the day, Cyrene had felt her heart stop with baffled wonder. Those oddly twinkling eyes had looked to her with open surprise, dawning gratitude and sudden, genuine warmth, and for the first time in her life, she had thought that shade of green to be the most beautiful colour she had ever known.
Something fierce and desperate, unknown, untamed, and beautifully terrifying had come to life inside of her chest, and it had rampaged wildly through her veins, through her senses in a way that she had never once known in her waking existence. Before they had even left the beach, Cyrene had fallen prey to the woman, and she had not put up much of a struggle against it. She was horrified by herself, was at a loss with the newness, but she had never once considered true denial as an option. No, she was well and truly in love with a stranger, and even if cold rationalism told her there would never be a happy ending, she had told herself that she would endure the pain of the eventual parting so long as she could at least have the memory of being at her side for awhile.
Now, Cyrene felt almost as if that familiar haze of the dream was creeping at her ankles, clawing softly at her in silent reminder that it was still all so utterly mad. She had never once tried to imagine reciprocation, but the grip on her hand was steady, and she felt every little brush of their shoulders, and heard the weight of their steps as they crossed their way through the trees that separated them from their tent. Her breaths were filled with the scent of night orchids, tea rose and incense, and warmth was gentle in the way it cradled her heart and settled the roiling terror that had chased her away from her bed to begin with.
Shadowheart opened the tent's flap for her, standing slightly to the side to give her entrance first, and Cyrene felt her eyes flicker to the enclosed darkness that waited inside of it. Two bedrolls had been more or less pushed tightly together to give the illusion of a single place to sleep, and the blankets were tossed aside, from her own hasty escape, or Shadowheart's faster chase, she couldn't entirely be sure. The emptiness she was used to, of solid ground and sprawling room had been closed up with Shadowheart's belongings, leaving it oddly full in ways she could not say she really she had adjusted to just yet.
But all the same, Cyrene ducked her head and stepped inside, never loosening the grip on the hand that had so carefully, so lovingly encased her own. She both heard and felt Shadowheart following after her, and darkness at once fell on them both as the tent's flap fell silently back into place behind them. The half-elf stepped in closer to her, pressing their arms tightly together as she squeezed her fingers, and Cyrene allowed herself the softest exhale as she leaned instinctively against her welcoming presence. She could not see the familiar glint of starlight anymore, could not feel the whisper of cool air on her skin, but as Shadowheart pressed back against her, her thumb slowly stroking along her hand, she didn't much miss what she had been searching for earlier in the night.
At Shadowheart's side in the moment, it was truly the safest place that Cyrene had ever been.