Her plan was far from perfect.
The walls of the monastery were distant from the safe canopy of the trees – where Xayah would feel at ease and protected, far from the fire of the enemies. (“We must be fast.”) The lack of pure magic felt like thick humidity, almost palpable -sweat on her skin, shallow breaths-: added to the harnessing of shadow magic, even just walking felt like a choking grasp on her throat, hands pining her down by her shoulders. (“In an out. Destroy it and be done with it.”)
Xayah tapped one nail on the map, brushed the surface drawing an invisible path. Carefully. A slow, deep sigh heaved her chest. The nocturnal breeze felt cold.
The gates were off limits: they reeked of polluted, sick magic, the stones were still shrieking in her head, an unpleasant feeling crawling on her skin - she had sensed it that morning, as she had scouted the place with Rakan. His feathers had bristled, displeased, and his usual glow had paled and dulled. Even his snarl was still ringing in her ears.
The parapets could easily hide shadow acolytes. A hail of arrows imbued with whatever dark essence they could muster (they had no regards for spirits nor magic) could be waiting for them. Or the threatening, booming shots of the Kashuri rifles. The vastaya had already had a bitter taste of it.
Too many guards -Xayah huffed, groaned as she scratched on the parchment with a quill, messy lines of ink. As of late, the Yanlei had been more aggressive defending their quinlons, as if they could somehow predict her plans. (“Not enough.”) And their shadow magic was as dangerous as their weapons. (“Still not enough.”)
And there was just two of them.
(“Just a wrong leap and it could be over for us.”) She tightly clenched her hands in fists, nails digging into the skin. Pain would keep her awake, perhaps. Make her think, find a better solution. Her jaw hurt. She shut her eyes close – it flashed for just a moment, the terrifying thought. Of loss, of Rakan being hurt just because of her. Or worse. Her breath caught in her throat, she felt her shoulders tensing as well as her arms. And she could taste blood in her mouth, teeth biting hard into her lower lip.
(“I’d kill them all. Every single one of them.”)
Black ink spilled on the map.
(“One day, I will run out of luck.”)
The fire flickered – she barely noticed the shadows growing long and dark on the ground. No warmth reached for her small figure. The lightest chuckle filled the cave for a moment. Her feathers lightly ruffled – her ears involuntarily pointed to the source of that chuckle. Rakan had probably seen some sparkles dancing in the smoke and vanishing in the air, she could guess. She had grown fond of that sound – a part of her thought as she pushed the map away from her tired gaze. A distraction, a warm embrace that wrapped her, the hint of a smile that quickly disappeared. A mere moment of relief and bliss she wanted to bask in forever. (How foolish of her.)
Xayah frowned, a resigned sigh left her lips as she leaned against the rocky wall of the cave. A pained and frustrated groan, the vastaya rubbed her temples with the tip of her fingers. The map and the quill were resting at her side, forgotten – ungracefully thrown over dirt and pebbles.
Even the soft crackling of the fire was unnerving her, now.
She could almost hear it – the natural shift in Rakan’s position as he turned towards her. How his feathers would bristle for the briefest second, alarmed, and how he would tilt his head ever a tad, a questioning look on his azure eyes. How silence would then fall, as his soft humming stopped instantly.
And Xayah knew he would not ask. Rakan would wait for her to speak, to allow him to come closer.
For this, she was thankful.
«I… », his ears promptly flicked as her voice broke the silence of the cave. It was low, feeble – as if she did not want to be heard. (“Weak.”)The stone felt cold against her back.
But Rakan was attentive. Waiting. Looking carefully at her. She could feel his stare, his furrowed brows (she would kiss his forehead to ease his worries), his hands ready to push him up to his feet (she would cling to him tightly to just feel him). A punch of guilt that had her bite her lips again to repress a pitiful whine.
(“Stop it,” her mind shut her. “Just think.”)
Xayah brought her knees close to her chest – circling them with her arms. Hid her face against them as a heavy sigh emptied her lungs. She wrapped her wing around her legs – perhaps to hide, perhaps for some sense of comfort.
«… I really don’t know what to do, Rakan.» A heartfelt admission. Her ears dropped flat against her hair. Her shoulders slouched forward. Her head hurt. Her nails dug deeper into the skin of her forearms. A silent plea, for Xayah would never beg to ease her burden, and Rakan knew it.
(“He always knows, somehow.”)
Another shift in the air – she could sense it.
Then, her ears slightly flicked, as a natural reaction; the faintest sound of Rakan’s steps, graceful and swift, got nearer and nearer. He kneeled beside her. (She fought that pleading warmth spreading in her chest.)
Utter silence.
Rakan did not need words. He could understand what her mind was thinking, the storm howling in her head. He could sort it out from the way she hid from his gaze, or from the way she tried to make herself smaller, curled up in her safe space. Yes, he could tell - how tightly her hands were holding on her elbows, how her claws scratched the dirt beneath her. How shallow her breath was. How her shoulders were slightly trembling – under a weight she had imposed on herself long ago.
A bittersweet song that told of fear and anger.
He waited. For her to send him away or for her to flinch and retreat in a corner of that cold cave.
He waited.
First, his hand would gently brush over her wing. Her breath hitched instantly, but her feathers softly vibrated and relaxed under his touch. She did not push him away, yet.
Then he soothingly caressed her forearm, with utmost care. And Xayah’s merciless grip was no more – it left reddened crescents on her skin, the mark of her sharp nails. His thumb tenderly drew circles on her skin, a weak glow of gold illuminated her smaller figure. She opened her eyes again. That dull pain pricking her had disappeared.
And what Xayah could feel next was the gentle hold of Rakan’s hands on her cold cheeks. Not forcing but inviting. Soft strokes of his thumb, like playful caresses – it made her ears flick again. A low whine from her lips – he stifled another chuckle.
With a deep sigh, she gave in – lift her face from its hiding place but drew her gaze away from him. A murmured “ehy” that made her bite her lower lip.
Undeserving, undeserving. She was planning their undoing: that was exactly what she was doing.
And he dared be so understanding.
«You know how these things work.»
But his hands on her felt so right. And warm. And gentle. Everything that she could not be. Yet, she was greedy and selfish enough to desire for him to stay with her, in that hidden cave, safe. (“I’m here”, his touch softly whispered at her worried mind, “I’m here.”)
Lingering in the much welcome pressure of his forehead against hers. Indulging in the tickling sensation of his strokes on her neck and cheeks and hair and ears. The faintest chuckle (was it her? Him?) as he brushed his nose against hers, affectionately. A foolish, childish thought that ran in her mind – to never leave this cave, to bask in this giddy sensation.
It was grounding. Reassuring. A steady presence she could rely on – so dependent. She leaned against him, let her knees drop. Her own hands would then move. Brush on his muscled arms, perhaps a bit more roughly than usual. (Urging, needing.) Pull him towards her as his hold on her head felt slightly tighter and firmer. Reach for his face and rest on his cheeks as well, mirroring his own slow stroking movements. A silent, most sincere “thank you”.
He would understand – he could always understand.
Finally, she could gaze back at him. His eyes lightened in bliss. Her heart did not feel constricted in her ribcage anymore.
«Do you trust me, Rakan?»
And Rakan was smiling. Softly, lovingly – none of that teasing, grinning smile of his. She could not decide whether she wanted to bite him or kiss him. But her cheeks felt hot, and breathing was now easier, and her chest felt lighter.
«I trust you, miella.»
