She lets me in. The second leap of faith. I can taste the reasons on her tongue.
Her facade crumbled under the pressure. The herculean weight of her ambitions, the fate of the Human Realm, the uncertainty.
It’s desperate. But it’s real. And I freeze at that fact.
She’s always been quite desperate with me, throughout our interactions. Desire has outpaced her capabilities.
So she latches on to me, hoping I keep her afloat. Banking on the possibility that I’m the solution.
I’m the answer to all her problems. That I won’t betray her trust. So she wishes.
It’s cruel: fate couldn’t have bestowed a worse person upon her. My spirit shamefully laughs at that.
Meanwhile, fate continues to throw caltrops in my path. But contrary to Leara, my belief in the mission and my desire to see it through is beyond compensated for with my inflated sense of importance and efficacy. For now.
I’ll be what she wants me to be. For the mission. Until the tunnel’s end arrives and I’m met with my own reflection staring from the dead-end’s depths.
It’s a single kiss. Drawn out. She’s amateurish, but that’s what makes it real.
Our eyes are locked as she pulls away. I want to save it and keep it in my pocket: a small little kindling of truth—reality.
I want to keep up the nonchalant act. To try and be repulsed. To throw a fit and say ’How dare a disgusting Human creature dare to touch me’ like I ought to.
But there’s a new dent in my wall, and it’s on the exterior, so I can’t patch it from the inside. Weakness weasels in.
I don’t hate her. Not like I should. And that’s as good as being infatuated. I want more, like the creature of greed that I am.
I’m just as afraid of uncertainty as she is, so I don’t dare try to seize it all. I don’t know what’ll become of me if that happens. Losing myself, my true self, in a side pursuit is the fuel of my nightmares—though ’side’ doesn’t seem to accurately depict... this.
We stare, both trying to gauge whether or not it’s fine to double down and go for seconds. Both red in the face, ears hot. There’s a strange heat about.
Tacitly, we agree to stop here. This is the extent. A curt moment of vulnerability. But it’s more than enough for us: two sides of the same coin. Birds of a feather.
I stare more, soaking in the sight of her until she goes flush.
"Say something." Leara breaks the silence, breaking eye contact, hiding her lips behind her hand in embarrassment.
"I thought you said you were in your right mind."
"What? You want more proof?" A soft and coy smile spread on her face. The shyness fades.
"I... uh," I freeze up again—the lights are too bright, even though it’s sundown and the chapel is dark. "I just got a tinge of alcohol, is all."
"It’s nothing. Just enough to tear down the barriers," she says. "Besides, the ’Mad Raven’ is mad while sober."
I laugh quietly, almost whispering to avoid the chapel’s echoes that give me away.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling of unease. For her, it’s an offloading. For me, it’s an entire can of worms that I don’t want to grapple with. I suppose now I share a portion of her burdens, but she doesn’t share mine. She can’t.
She can never see past the mask. Never. I can’t tell if the tightness in my chest is love, guilt, or astonishment at the depths of my cruelty.
"Maybe Radio Raheem will dub me with a nickname," I think out loud, snapping out of the nonsense.
"No need for a persona. Auren of Ovine rolls off the tongue."
She’s more infatuated than I am. It’s the way she said my name. Auren. So soft that every syllable is a shot of liquor.
Yet it sours in the throat. A true gut punch: Ovine. The falsehood.
Leara should be smart enough to see the dangers. The unknowns. Yet she’s gone and done it anyway. Admirably. But the compassion in me condemns it as stupidity.
Each reiteration of her determination and my duplicity gnaws at my previously unwavering mental.
"What’s wrong?" she asks. I’ve slipped a little again. Bad. Very bad. I’m definitely not in my right mind.
"I’ve just remembered that I accidentally let the village’s location slip during my talk with Cossa." I play it off expertly. "Gabriel of Lomberg, the Landeskog double-agent. I was careless."
"That’s fine." No theatrics. There isn’t a hint of worry in her tone. "We have time. There’s a better camp position I’ve been eyeing anyway."
"I’ll be sure to take it for you."
She lightheartedly scoffs. "Such cheesy flattery."
"Was it effective?"
"I suppose."
"Wait, where’d you even get alcohol from?"
"We weren’t idle here," she says. "The more teams we captured, the more ground we could cover, and the more resources we could collect. A run-down building to the North had a sizeable stockpile." For more chapters visit NoveIＦire.net
"I’d hide booze from Valeria as soon as possible," I chuckle. "She told Nicklas that they were gonna get shitfaced tonight, coming off the high of our victory."
"There’s no hiding it from her," Leara laughs back. "She has a sixth sense for it. Hells, it seems like she knew we’d have it beforehand."
"Must be her trait. ’Future-booze-sense’."
"Heh, probably. I told Evan he could divvy it out for tonight’s celebration."
"Celebration?"
"To our heroes," she makes a small gesture toward me.
"Then we should probably—"
"No." She yanks me by the collar at the slightest hint of leaving.
"I really could use a drink. Take the edge off."
She hands me a flask from her pocket, a playful grin on her face. Very cheeky.
Whiskey. I take a deep swig. Spirits are my preference. And they definitely beat those fucking IPAs.
"So much for being in your right mind." I swallow it down.
"I think you don’t know my right mind."
"Well," I preemptively smirk as the words flow, unable to take myself seriously. "If we’re going to stay in here, then I think we should change that."
"Silky smooth," she charmingly muses.
"Not good enough?"
"The contrary. Too good."
"Don’t feed my ego. It’s dangerous."
She inches closer once more, leaning right next to my ear.
"But I like danger." The words tingle my spine.
"Ugh... and you dare to label me cheesy."
"I dare often," a coy smirk floods her face. Bad ideas, more like. "And I daresay that I agree with you. I could use some practice, as well."
"Practice what?"
"I’m not gonna say it."
"Come on."
"No," she turns flush.
"Come on...." I jest.
"Seriously, can I?" she goes all serious with timid undertones.
"You didn’t ask for permission before."
"Ah... I nearly forgot."
We succumb to the atmosphere. I never could have thought I’d get to see this side of her.
She breaks the seal as we kiss, her fingers tracing along my jaw, my neck, tingling my scalp like knives. I shudder and get deja vu.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. I go bold and bring her closer by the torso. I’m very careful not to do any more. It’d be far too dangerous.
Right now, I’m lost in it all. Enchanted.
Minutes upon tens of minutes of lip-locking entrances me—a spell of forgetfulness far better and more fulfilling than any drug. The worries wash away; cliche, but it’s true. A distraction—like meaningful busywork, despite that not only being paradoxical but also a bit misrepresentative of my actual feelings.
...That of which I can’t truly discern.
I kept telling myself that one day I’d fall so deep into the facade that I’d lose the boundary.
In reality, I’ve already lost it. A while ago. Falling in and out. It’s a tide. I’ll either stubbornly float along it till I drown, or I’ll cling to something.
The line has been obfuscated, and now I deal with the crisis left in its wake.
Not yet. Another time. My mind fades, solely with the present in frame.
Now all I know is the softness of her lips, her whiskey breath, and our airless, intermittent breaths.
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[A/N]
Thank you for reading my writing. I feel very loved.