#maleficent 2

Silence.

There was not an awkward pause, nor tense moment laid between the pair with words that remained yet unspoken. But there was an eerie, uncomfortable weight within the cottage that lay pregnant with the presence of the one who had claimed the home mere seasons ago.

Her hands, which were powdered with flour, worked tirelessly at fluffy dough, kneading and rolling the soft material with desperation in every motion. There was no written request for fresh bread placed upon the windowsill or door of the residence, nor a verbal agreement of those most closest to the bread-maker that once held a pleasant smile.

The desperation bore itself from the subconscious effort to distract from the death of the elder that lie close to heart – torn from the world in a manner that was not seen to be befitting of the life that had been within their grasp once.

A breath was taken to accompany a vicious shake of the head in an effort to push away the unwanted thoughts that had plagued her mind. Thoughts that would do more to serve as intruders and batter down the harsh efforts to distract from the inevitable feelings that would come to envelop their form, one way or another. It was then that the kneading became vigorous, molars clenching together as the small muscle within her jaw tightened. Flour that had been sifted onto the counter had started to hug and wrap into the dough with a silent warning that the kneading would be for naught – overworked and no longer a staple of her usual skill.

Stop.

The overworked hands continued their kneading as a brief flash of memory came to mind without permission: a white blanket covered the deceased before their arrival.

Stop.

Cream-colored dough began to stick to the counter, the warnings of the mind doing nothing to cease the kneading as another memory came to mind: erratic and pained cries of the mother that had lost her father were torn from her lungs while the child born of her loins had wrapped their arms around her, seeking to provide comfort in any shape or form.

“Stop.”

It was in that moment that voice seemed real – something that had gone beyond the subconscious into the realm of the physical world.

A familiar winged companion that had long since taken the place of a lover had braced his chest to their back. There was a slight startle with a choked gasp at the presence that had gone unnoticed but the kneading would not stop as he attempted to press his calloused hands upon the baker’s in a soft attempt to ease her hands to cease all action.

Powdery hands remained attached to the dough, squeezing the poor subject of her discomfort as calloused thumbs massaged the base of her own. While he could have coaxed her to release her hold from the mixture, he recognized it as an anchor – a weight to the world that threatened that fall from under her in her grief-stricken stupor.

Borra took in a breath through his nose, breathing out softly from slightly parted lips that tickled the hairs at the base of his lover’s neck. He withheld the words that settled on the tip of his tongue in favor of allowing her to break the silence that she sheltered herself in. Squeezing her hands gently, the rough pads of his fingers slid along bare forearms, pausing momentarily on the folded sleeves of her dress.

The desert warrior felt the slackening of the muscles within her arms to release the overworked dough that stuck slightly to her hands. His silence remained even as a breath hitched in her throat, strangled by a garbled and sharp sob that tumbled from her throat. Borra pressed his hands to her upper arms at that moment, twisting her gently to envelop her fully; chest to chest, her face tucked in the crook of his neck, and his wings curling around her form as if she were nestled inside of a cocoon.

It was only when he pressed his lips to the top of her head that he spoke against her scalp: “I am here.”

With the softness of his tone and his confident, loving affirmation, the dam that held back her emotions gave way to held back tears and mournful cries.

She clung to him desperately, noting the lack of straps and arm coverings that he usually donned but making no effort to comment on it. It was his own way of showing her that he was there – fully and unmasked, unhindered by his usual countenance that he held among his people. That brooding and defensive nature; the bold, domineering, and strategic warrior that had been unafraid to flaunt his confidence before man had softened and laid bare his own vulnerability in an effort to provide comfort in his lover’s time of grief and need.

Sparing a glance behind himself to ensure space would give allowance to his next action, he braced his back against the close wall, slowly easing his treasured companion and himself to the ground. He bent his legs slightly to close her into himself as his right hand stroked her back slowly.

A sigh had fallen from his lips as he looked down upon her shaking form. He had experienced loss – both of natural and unnatural cause. The pain of grief had not been unfamiliar to him but seeing it take hold of his companion drew a feeling of helplessness from him.

He could not console her with typical words of comfort, nor lay with her until soft sobs gave way to soft whimpers and pleas to soothe the fire that he would have stoked between her thighs. To do so would merely be temporary venture to distract from the natural ebb and flow of mourning. He could not do that to her – he would not do that to her. Death was an unfortunate consequence to befall many and he would not do her the injustice of learning how to navigate the feelings that came with it.

“I will remain as long as you wish me to,” he reminded her softly.