It can't be. It isn't the place he had ever thought he'd see her again. For years, he'd believed her but a creature who'd remain in memory. She had persisted as a beguiling sort of whisper, his mind idling on her beauty and in that laughter she had offered in the reaches of the night. She had been but a ghost in his slumber, a glimpse of his life that had been so sweet, and he'd thought that there she'd linger, loitering the doorway of his tendermost dreams, but there she'd stand in the wholeness of her body...!
He's drunk. Or addled, he supposes, thrus in his death bed.
She hasn't aged a day, this woman. Against her skin, she glows in the wash of the moonlight, a rose long-suspended in a winter-clutched dream. He'd ought to keep her just as the lady stand, far in his mind where she'd live untouched, but -- he can't help but reach for her, following her steps as exits the tavern. Why chase a haunting no matter how cherished? Cemeteries-- He yanks her shoulder. What good will dare come from the turning of graves? "Stop." Gruffer. Rougher. And his face -- the etching of a long decade paints him a hunter. "I'm not letting you get away from me again." A table jeers in jest, ale spilling. "You've haunted me long enough." / @sanctifisol, liked for a starter.
