Touching her – it was funny, touching her. Fingertips brushed against the skin of her neck and the closeness of her body sent a shimmering strangeness through him: a strangeness that felt as simple and natural and part of himself as the desert wind.
Touching her did not feel like discovering something new but rather finding something old, some lost part of his own being that clicked into place with each brush of her breath against his lips, the adamantine solidity of his heart melting at each sweep of her fingers against his.
It felt so inexplicably right, this moment: touch her and stroke her and kiss the scars that shone on her skin in white lines amid the shadows of the moon. They moved together, danced across their intertwined souls, hands and hearts and minds turning together in the place beyond all places where nothing but them could be, her dress falling to the ground in a heap of silk the color of his eyes as he held her.
Fire twisted along his arms and back and wound itself around his wrists as her hair tangled in his fingers, thinnest scarlet fibers falling over them in a sunset curtain. She murmured his name as he kissed her, echoes bouncing back and forth on shared breath with each movement of their tongues until their names were mingled and formed a single word that neither could pronounce alone. Love, they whispered, love, and it was summoned by their longing to plant a seed their devotion would water in the years to come.
Oh, so many years to come.
Touching her – it was funny, touching her. Every cell in his body swirled in anticipation as the back of her hand brushed against his arm, her gentle gaze stroking his ravaged face, wounded (as she was) by time and war. She held him in strong arms in the night-time, and when he shied away in the grip of his memories she followed, and swept away his fear.