yuna? receives a soft forehead kiss from dion. she works so hard.
yuna has not given it much thought — by it we mean herself; how can one be so absorbed to leave all of this & more behind? perhaps, an after thought. days have slipped away with a certain amount of tasks on her sleeves, yet her arm has always been interlinked with dion's through all. even when they both had to part ways, prestablished plans requiring they attend to their own duties without the presence of the other, she would bid him goodbye with a hopeful curve of her lips, and he would gift her the strength necessary to continue the making of her path with a simple knowing gaze. ( are you sure? never have i been more before. ) somehow, they had learned to make out a secret language that only had meaning along their lines; if old yevon's maesters were to know such a thing was in place in the walls of bevelle, that two of the most influential figures at present would giggle behind the absurdity of old traditions, what would they say? after all, they have been regarded as unworthy already — him with his good heart, kinder than his maker.
in truth, yuna prefers to leave that in the past, where it might rightfully belong. would dion understand? he was there, in and out of it, only catching scorches of each other when fate would allow it, yet she cannot forget. today, she sits next to dion and dares not look back ( then when his hand was kind, healing of something he had not broken ). they sit close, as trusted allies do, careful of each other's attention, yet busy with tackling yet another task that requires their undivided attention. it's a matter of simply doing, to keep on going even while the body requires rest. she's tired and he can tell, can't he? does it show in the lines of her features as she looks at him now? or perhaps the weak laughter that barely fills the air, hoping for it to be enough — sometimes she forgets there is no need for false ceremonies in his presence, for they are learning each other's nature, understanding.
in these times dion has often proved to be a guiding light — mismatched eyes join with ambral ones and a sense of relief washes over as the fabric of memories threads together, although painfully. she could remember the piercing gaze in her dreaming, appointed a traitor by someone before him, yet unmistakebly close in the distance to him. their stances could have not been more different now and it makes it easier on her heart; his unwavering loyalty through times has proven healing. an amusing thought comes crossing her mind now with his inquisitive look directed at her: at times she has wished for him to have been her guardian, back in her fateful demise. the days are long gone now, a high summoner holds his arm, but if days were still numbered, she could see herself search for him.
( i didn't quite know what to say then, i have a lot of regrets about that. )
she's wiser now, the weight of the world shifting its stance on her shoulders — he holds her by them now, and it feels like atlas could bear this eternal penance. her head redirects its weight now, long hair ending on his shoulder, her tired mind finding shelter along the sharp line, and the silence holds them like a kindness. all is far and away for now and yuna basks in the tenderness of his compassion. there is something she wishes to say, something she must let him know ( empathy, devotion ); her lips part but every word seems to fall short when his lips touch the skin of her forehead. she could break underneath any moment and so could he, both in each other's grasp; yet they persist. yuna lets it happen to her — the kindess of his warmth, the fire of his simpathy. lids come together, restlessness disappearing at once, feeling everything at once. was she deserving? must the savior be always so damned? must the curse of being known be so heavy on them? fingers curl around his forearm through their interlinked arms, tightening in silence. this can mean everything — do not leave my side. do not let me fall to my disgrace. guide me in darkness. hold my temper. let me be your hand.
the silence lingers and history must continue its course. they know this. they've known this for a long time.
