#support. marmar

sword +1 starter for @arcstral​

          SHE CAN FEEL THE VENGEANCE IN ITS VINES— the way it seemed to wish to consume her, to cleanse the stain she wrought upon its space and to take her for itself. Tiki huffs as she cuts another swirling tendril loose from her ankle, the sharpness of her nails snapping it away like a stray thread. But these fibers would not be eliminated so carelessly. Not if they wished to cut away enough of them. Indeed, she and the Hero-King had been trekking this space for quite some time now, searching valiantly for some way to clear it. While she is certain that Marth had no shortage of experience cleaving through such obstacles, the problem lies in the fact that they stand in this overgrowth. The purgatorial labyrinth provides no point of vantage for them; they have nothing but their blades and each other against the living mass of vinery.

          But if Tiki has her Mar-Mar, she's certain they can be enough. They will be enough. For why did fate grant unto her this blooming divinity, if she could not use it to support those she cherished most? She owed the Hero-King personally, besides, and sees no better opportunity to repay her debt than to aid him in this mission.

          Leaves crunch; another vine is split into twain with a sharp tug of Tiki's leg. She finds herself unconsciously marching on ahead, marking a path for Marth behind her by treading upon it first. She is careful to turn back at him whenever she can, well-timed flicks of her head ensuring that there is never a moment where they are too far apart. Alas, looks cannot stop the fury of ancients scorned, and a particularly rough-sounding snap causes Tiki to nearly lose herself in alarm.

          "Mar-Mar!"

          She rushes to his half-fallen side, hands aquiver with all the nerves of a hatchling bird. She can see it; the redness quickly blooming on his knee, and the crimson-marked vine that had caused it. Curse the fragility of man! Curse the fragility of her own heart! Tiki's gaze grows wild, and for a moment, she feels herself to be a young manakete again; lost and helpless and clueless in the face of the world. But as swiftly as she forgets, she manages to let herself remember— SHE IS THAT CHILD NO MORE. She knows her power and she knows how to use it. It would do no one good were she to lose it to her emotions.

Mortal understanding would never cease to pale to the seemingly immortal variety. Full mastery over such things as the truths of the world came far from easily by comparison - Falchion’s origins and the Binding Shield, the ancient transgressions imposed upon divine treasures, and the longevity of those who lived with one foot in the world of dragons and another in that of humanity. However, always did the man-made mind find ways to stretch itself thin without breaking, resilient as a corded rope of hair that resisted snapping no matter the force. A lesson that the Hero-King and all who fought at his side and standard acquainted with time and time again.

Marth naturally marveled at the differences that set not only him and Tiki apart, but Tiki apart from herself. Short, fleeting lifespans that shone bright with all they had and guttered out like a candle no matter their readiness…such were humans, after all. Minds left only to spin at the centuries and millennia that, for them, spanned an age, but represented merely a fraction of a moment–a blink, an exhale, or a sigh–to the dragonkin. To Tiki.

How could the manakete child he knew grow simultaneously so little and so much over the eons? What common men could not hope to understand even after a dedicated lifetime of study King Marth understood just as little with lesser sophistication. But born from his limitations nevertheless was his love, suffused with a bright and wistful kind of wonder…

Curiosity guided the gentle pathing of his thumb; a weight without pressure, an exploration that wound up and over the ridges and grooves of Tiki’s hand alike a connoisseur marveling at the fine bones of a small bird. Never mind that such a ‘bird’ in question could, in native form, crush a man's skeleton much less his hand within the generous realm of choice. But such thoughts did not reach Marth's smile in the slightest. And nor would they ever. “—I remember when your hand could scarcely fit in the palm of my own… no bigger than the apples and peaches we picked on the march, really. To see how you've grown, Tiki, I feel as a proud parent who has witnessed the peak of their child's growth. Or perhaps an older sibling who finds himself surpassed by the younger. It is in any case a feeling I find the utmost difficulty putting to words, hah-hah!"

          SHE IS KEENLY AWARE OF THE FRAGILITY that entwines around her fingers; how the bones beneath Marth's still-rosy skin could well break beneath the draconic strength of her hands. When he caresses her palm with his, every bit as cooing and gentle as she remembered him, she scarcely makes a move. As though he would break apart beneath her very touch. As though she would lose him again, or, worse yet— reveal this form to be naught but an illusion. Tiki keeps herself restrained, thus; a bird clipping her own wings.

          There exists, of course, a burning desire to throw all away. To revel in the joy of her reunion with her beloved Mar-Mar; to sing and play with him as she once did all that time ago. But she hadn't known the brittle nature of mortals, then, nor did she realize the sheer power that coursed through her veins. Humans were but a smear across the vast painting of time. How unfortunate it would be, were she to squander such an opportunity to exist with him once more, in this older form of hers. She grows gentle; careful and patient in ways that she hadn't known herself to be. Fretful like her dear BanBan, or her cherished Say'ri. How she understands their worries now! For as decorated the Hero-King is, she finds herself treating him like glass, just as the both of them regarded her gingerly.

          Marth speaks, fondness warm in his voice. Tiki finds her cheeks flushing as his thumb draws constellations in her hand. Eyes trace the invisible lines that he creates, her draconic gaze honing in on the details he refers to. Yes, she can see it; the fractions of growth between her fingers and his, the way her palm is easily able to cover his. These had taken millennia to form. Were it not for the miracle of this land, she doubts Marth could ever see it. She doubts Marth would know her outside of a young dragonling at all!

          All the more reason to cherish this moment, then. All the more reason to grasp his hand in turn and feel its callous and age beneath the barely-there brush of her fingers. Watch the way his knuckles catch the light, keenly, as though committing the scene to memory.

          "You needn't use words at all," she speaks, her voice every bit as soft as her touch. She sighs, the exhale coming out from her nose. "I feel your joy and pride sharply. I have grown lots, MarMar. I'm delighted to know that I can show you… when I otherwise could not."