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Dreaming of Sacae
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She's staring out at the mountains again, past the mountains again, eyes wide, hazy, and far. Eliwood stirs next to me, beckoning in a polite request toward Marcus to restock the campfire, but it's an empty motion and one not heeded by its recipient, as everyone else except myself and Lyn sit entranced by Legault's tales. Me, I'm paying attention to something more important. And she? If she notices, she doesn't bother to show it.But I don't think she notices, anyway. I can see the flames reflected in her eyes, dancing, writhing, and completely unseen. She's gone back home in her mind, just as she does almost every night, probably dreaming of running through the grass beneath the starlit summer sky and breathing in the air of the plains of Sacae. It's a place I've seen, of course, and run through myself: but to me, it was only another field, only another battleground.
To her, it's everything.
Who am I and my axe to compare?
For that's all I have to offer her: myself-as-I-am, an aiding arm in battle, and a promise of undying loyalty through whatever the fates decide to throw at us. And part of me wants to voice that offer, right here, right now. Part of me wants to pull her aside and out of this ring of laughter that we're both not part of anyway and say everything I ever wanted to and ever will say. Part of me want to tell her exactly how much I love her in one shot, one moment, one breath.
But I don't. And I haven't, for weeks and weeks and weeks. Eliwood would probably laugh if he knew and tease me about how he'd never expected rash, loud Hector of all people to back down from a challenge, but I doubt the poor boy suspects a thing. And even if he did, he'd have gotten it all wrong: I've learned to take the bad with the good, as all warriors and even more so, leaders, must.
It's not rejection I fear.
It's not rejection, it's not commitment, and it's certainly not love itself. What I fear is the small chance that she might accept me against all that logic and wisdom and propriety. That's what constantly drives me away, keeping me near her but never by her, wishing that I could speak but hoping that I never will. It's unlikely that it would ever happen. Unlikely? It's nigh-impossible. But love tends to work like that, at least in my experience. It's not a risk I want to take.
She has her own life to live, anyway, once this journey is over and the world is safe. She has a life, one that she's dreaming of now, out on the plains, where her heart has always been. It's a life that couldn't be more opposite to the one that I could offer her: she would suffocate in a role of social lordship like a warhorse locked away in a stable or a wildflower, pruned and transplanted into the garden of a Queen.
I know this. I know it all too well. And I can't say that I don't wish it were different.
But I know that I've got my own life, too, back in a castle of stone and metal. I've got a life, along with a brother that needs my help and a land that needs my guidance. I've got a future planned out, for myself and the people that depend on me, and it's a future that I am going to see happen, come hell, high water, or dragons from another world. It's all safe, secure, stable: just like me, or so I'm told.
But were it not for them, I would gladly cast aside this armor that has accompanied me for years and run with her through the grass she dreams of, light as a child again and feeling that Sacaean night air brush through my hair. Feeling it brush through mine, and seeing it brush through hers, untied, wild, and free. I'd sweep her off her feet, and she'd probably fight me then, yelling at me to put her down, that I'd ruined the moment, and for me to stop being a ridiculous fool. And then I'd laugh, and she'd laugh too, laughter something like the guffaws and snickers surrounding us now at the campfire, but different, too.
Yes... I'd do that, were I able to. I'd like that, were things different. But they're not. I'm not. She's not. That's reality.
And reality is something that I learned to deal with a long, long time ago.
I rise, brushing off my cloak, and Eliwood looks up at me, distracted for the moment from the newest tale. Tired already, Hector? he asks jovially, face flushed with laughter and probably a bit of wine as well. I only nod, unable to say more because I've sworn never to lie to him. And it's true: I am tired. Just not from today's physical battle.
A movement to my right draws my attention, and I turn to see that Lady Lyndis has risen beside me, eyes focused now and regarding her half-drunk companions with friendly amusement. Eliwood gives her a questioning look as well, but she only nods at him too, unfastening the sword-sheath from her belt and looping it over her shoulder. We leave the circle together, heading for the tents to the side and stumbling once or twice in the dark before our vision shifts and gives us faint, glimmering outlines of the world.
And the outline of Lyndis it gives me, traced in moonlight and ever moving, ever alive, is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
But it's over in an instant, and the familiar feel of my tent is beneath my hands. I pause before entering for the night, watching her carefully lean her weaponry against one of the flexible walls of her own, touch surprisingly gentle and full of care. How those hands would feel on me is a thought I don't want to have right now but one I have anyway. But that, too, is over in an instant as she straightens, nods in satisfaction, and pulls open the flap of her tent.
She doesn't once look at me.
"Lyn" I begin to call, before realizing that this may be a bit too familiar. "dis," I finish awkwardly, and she looks up, startled, frozen in place. If I hadn't seen her with a dagger between her teeth loosing arrow after arrow into an oncoming army earlier this afternoon, I'd say that she might have been scared.
"Oh?" Her voice seems almost expectant and I think I might have heard a slight tremor in it, but the musicians back at home have always said that I've got a horrible ear. "Yes, Hector?"
All I want in the world right now is to ask her what I've wanted to ask for such a damn long time and hear her repeat that same two-word phrase with a period instead of a question mark at the end.
But I don't.
"Good night," is all I say, and I can almost see relief in her expression.
"Good night," she repeats, and disappears.
And so, I'm safe for one more night.
I spend it dreaming of running through the grass beneath the starlit summer sky and breathing in the air of the plains of Sacae.