It's far from right.
This love is far from right.
If you ever see them, you would see a girl with a head like a blossom, moving along side a fire headed boy as though they are one. You would see her lean against him every once in a while, his hands move gently up into her hair, but nothing more. You wouldn't see what was really happening.
But everyone knows.
They know that she carries his child, that it will kill her with its outrageous powers. They know that her family threw her out after they found out, that he saved her from the world. They know that they protect each other from the dangers and the hurts, that they absorb each other's pain. And they, the peoples of this village, they know that all he ever wanted from life was death, and that all she ever wanted was life.
They balance each other out, Yin and Yang. They see what others do not, look beyond the broad horizon into something new. Black and white mix to form grey, fire needs oxygen to make flame.
But they have the same emerald eyes; his are dark, stoic, while hers are lit with an inner fire that burns and makes all other lights seem dim. Sometimes his become hers, sometimes hers become his. But always, when they look at each other, you can see the change.
He was given a chance in his own village, but he lost that chance when he lost his family. She had already given up all honor, all hopes, having disappeared and coming back, saying that she had changed. Falling from the sky, they plummeted together, sharing a bond others could not—would not.
But then you see the other people who ride in their wake; dark night, bright, golden sunshine above cerulean seas, silver moon resting in the sky.
It's more of a sense than a sight; they have nothing to prove, so why prove it? But if you take a small glance at their eyes, today, you would know that they were indeed falling together.
And you would think what everyone else thinks:
It's far from right.
This love is far from right.
But, after all, they are beyond wrong.