#and conversely

Magnolia's asleep; caged in a giant's embrace. How she finds it comfortable, Garling will never know, nor will he ever understand. The wind whistles around them in the secluded grove. Fireflies dance through the air, little lights flickering everywhere. It's quiet. The blond likes the quiet - reminds him of nights spent combing through every book in the family library at the light of the full moon and a lone candle. Rivers of red flow across arm and lap; the urge to run claws through the crimson strands wins. So...beautiful. To think that others had tormented Magnolia as a child because of it; and now... they adore her for it. The itch starts again. It's the first time since he's arrived, but Garling knows better than to believe it would never happen. The itch deepens, spreading through his skull, the urge to hunt down the bastards and grab their necks and squeeze- Writhing breaks his descent. Looking down, he sees the mark blooming across the redhead's arm. No. Nononono...! His cover will be blown and she will see him for what he really is. Yet...Magnolia does not wake up. How? How has she not startled awake and fled? Her wriggling ceases, returning to stillness. Magnolia curls up further, burying her nose in the blond's stomach; comforted by the weight of his presence. Outside the willow gazebo, reeds rustle and frogs quack. Slowly, carefully, Garling stands, arms wrapped firmly around his lover.

Time to return.

Trudging through long grass, the blond gazes at the glittering night sky. The moon hangs low, illuminating the path ahead and bathing him in light. Magnolia sleeps soundly. Fireflies flitter hither and thither. More nightlife begins to show itself as a bird flies from one tree to another. A small shadow scurries through the branches. None of the creatures seem to be any more scared of Garling than any of their natural predators, which is surprising given how he is the devil made flesh-

The cottage that Magnolia calls home stands not far from where he is. Stepping inside, the blond places her in her bed while he quickly makes himself ready; no need to wake her up when she looks so peaceful. Crawling under the thin blanket, he watches the redhead, zeroing in on her chest as it rises and falls. How...still. Is this how all mortals sleep? At least it isn't a corpse like last time. Hypnos' spells work their magic, and Garling's eyelids begin to droop; yet, he does not want to tear his gaze from her. How pathetic - a god, reduced to a fool. Worst of all...he does not understand why.

Three hours later...

Magnolia awakens. Scanning her surroundings, she realises that she is back home, sprawled out in bed. Yet, she does not recall wandering back from the grove, so how- A pained whimper breaks her train of thought. Turning, her eyes fall on the large bed next to hers, where her lover lies curled up, quivering and muttering. Cautiously, she slips from her bed, before noting her state of dress. Magnolia quickly brushes her teeth and changes into a nightdress before making her way over to the other bed (a gift in exchange for all the work Garling had done for a bunch of carpenters so he would no longer have to sleep on the floor, or on his ship, away from her). The whining continues, and Garling keeps trembling; a fist wraps around her heart and squeezes at the sight. A sheen of sweat covers him, and his cheeks are salt-stained. A small hand presses gently against the blond's forehead. Not feverish, the redhead thinks. He mumbles again, words jumbled - only a scarce few making it to Magnolia's ears. Crushing realisation sends a chill through her: a night terror. And yet, the other seems to be fighting it, even while in the uncomfortable throes of sleep. Her hand moves by itself, the urge to comfort deep in her bones. It finds a pale temple, and Garling flinches, a yelp escaping his lips. Magnolia almost tumbles to the floor, but remains determined in her quest. Her hand moves instead to silken strands of pale gold, running her fingers through it.

This is not the first time, nor will it be the last. Magnolia feels the ache  (ever-present since she first learned of her lover's bouts of unseen terror) as it spreads through her chest, her bones, and into her eyes. Wetness pools on her eyelashes and falls down her cheeks.  The redhead cannot understand. Why does he not tell her? Does he not trust her? Garling has given her his heart - of that she is certain - and yet he is unwilling to divulge his fear. Something happened; she knows that. Something - or someone - has taken youthful innocence and dashed it against a castle's stone walls; childish wonder, beaten and thrashed. Magnolia refuses to believe otherwise. What else can possibly inspire such panic? Her other hand comes to hold the soft strands as she continues running her fingers through it. Then, she lets go, and once again, she moves towards the damp temple.

Tension.

Then, relief; Garling goes still. The redhead carries on, touch migrating from the sacred temple to a high cheekbone. Each caress is delicate, deliberate. Bit by bit, the blond's breathing begins to slow as he goes slack. Finally, he seems to relax - as one should do when embraced by Hypnos. A sigh leaves Magnolia and the ache dissipates for now. The night hums outside, owls hooting and cicadas chirping. Good; dead silence would not help either of them. Her bed calls to her, but she knows where she would rather be. Tentatively, the redhead crawls in next to her lover. Her arms wrap around broad shoulders and she buries her face in his nape. Garling is warm, his steady presence flooding her with comfort.