efflorescence (n.): the state or a period of flowering
It wasn't that they wanted to keep it a secret.
They didn't hide holding hands, they didn't shy away from longing looks at each other. And Jack wouldn't let Henry hear the end of it.
But there was a certain thrill in stealing away, in sneaking past the camp guards.
Or to pretend they snack away, when really, Hook just didn't throw another glance their way.
And that kind of thrill should have been ephemeral, but it grew on Ella. Sitting on the dead wood with the brook's burble concealing their voices, she learned so much about the man she met.
About the boy he'd been and how he grew. How his worst heartbreaks had been his mothers lying to him, and how eventually his first love had hid the truth from him as well. How wanderlust had led him past a portal, through the Thieves' Mountains and lately, to join a resistance. She learned that he was credulous and impulsive, but for some reason, she didn't shy away.
Instead, she shared her heart with him. How her own two mothers abandoned her, one physically, the other emotionally. While they feasted on figs he brought in his musette, she admitted her pain and guilt upon losing Ana. Over the afterglow of sunset, she confessed completely giving up the hope of finding not just lasting love, but true friendship ever again.
But this hope flared up in her again. In the resistance, she had found people truly on her side – not just against the woman who had abused her and the land for so long. These people stood by her as Ella, as the person she was.
Among them was he. Stolen kisses and whispered words, scintillate skies mirroring the sense within: She had taken the risk and went to a place she had feared to ever tread again: She cared for him so much she'd miss him if he'd ever left her life. Whenever they returned to the camp and parted for what's left of the night's rest, she felt him leaving her side like a limb being torn from her.
But for some reason, that was sweet sorrow.
Because she didn't only allow herself to care, she allowed herself to trust. To trust that on the next day, he'd still be there, and he'd again kiss her, he'd still love her. To trust that he wanted to do so – and to allow herself to want that, too, for many more days to come.
AN: Hey, thanks for checking by and reading! I hope you enjoyed it. I'm thinking about maybe writing a companion piece from Henry's point... would you like that?
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