Kratos was surrounded by words.
There were words that described battles; words that wove stories; words that dribbled lies; words that attempted to recreate history; words that were wise; words that meant nothing; there was words all around him – words for literally everything. Everything except for the one thing he wished to express.
And yet Kratos found he could not use any of them.
Kratos peered over his book, giving his companion a fervid look. She was unaware of him, unaware of his plight. She sat, her knees tucked into her chest, her arms wrapped around them, her nose deep within her book. He could not see her face, only her long brown hair that melted in soft waves around her. She was completely absorbed, lost in her book.
Kratos withdrew his glance from the small woman and began to focus on the library around him. It was quite immense. They had retreated to the farthest nook of the Sybak library. The world was wet outside. Even now, Kratos could hear the hushed hum of the shimmering shower as hit hurriedly against the roof the building. The room was heated, but the moisture from outside had permeated the walls, creating a cozy damp warmth. The old pages of the books caught the moisture in the room, causing the smell of ink and age to seep from the thin, worn pages. It was comfortable; it was quite; it was their temporary sanctuary from the storm outside.
They had come to research a way for a human to wield the Eternal Sword. They had come many times before as well. Kratos usually tore into the books, rifling through the many shelves, pulling out worn leather bound books perfumed with mildew. They would spend hours there, sometimes days pouring through books; so much time was spent sifting through words. Yes, Kratos had gone through thousands upon thousands of words and yet, he could not find the right word to describe how he felt. He could not use any of them.
Perhaps the word was admire. He did admire Anna. He admired her strength; he admired that she continued to fight even when all she wanted to do was give up. He admired her determination; no task could not be completed if Anna put her mind to it. He admired her excitement in the things around her; everything was interesting with Anna. He admired her beauty; it was not an explicit beauty, it was subtle. He caught moments of it when she was pulling back her hair, when she was waking up, she was smiling to herself when she was thinking of him. Yes, he did admire her.
But admire, was insufficient. Admire did not describe the respect he had for her.
Maybe the word was desire. It was true, he yearned for Anna. Kratos always wanted to hold her. His fingers itched for her, his arms longed for her, his heart ached for her. He wanted to feel her lips against his. He wanted her. But what was more, Kratos also desired her company; he loathed every moment that they were apart. He wanted to be the focus of her eyes; he wanted to be the subject of her every minute. He wanted her to desire him as much as he longed for her. Yes, he desired her.
But desire was insufficient. Desire could not express the need he had for her.
What if, love was the word. Kratos dwelled on the expression. He sighed. Love. Kratos was, indeed aware, that he loved Anna. Every moment with her was precious. He loved her laugh, her eyes, her smile, her pouts, her tantrums, her hair, her triumps... He loved everything about her. Yes, he loved her. This he already knew.
But love was insufficient. Love did not convey the fact that he was incomplete without her.
Kratos grumbled. Glowering at his book. He paid no attention to the words there, rather his focus lied words that would describe this consuming affection that he felt for Anna. It was Admiration – it was more. It wasn't desire – it was more. It wasn't love – it was more. Love, was just a word. A term. Love did not include the smiles, the tears, the embraces that were present with Anna. Love did not encompass the memories, the kisses, the time that came with Anna. No, love did none of those things justice, Love clamoured, love strived to be the right word, but it was just so clearly deficient. No, even love, love, the ultimate declaration of emotion, was grievously inadequate in describing what Kratos felt.
A word could not capture an emotion.
At least not an emotion incurred by Anna.
No word was worthy of Anna.
Kratos sighed. There was only one solution to this "word" problem. He closed his book soundly. The light slap of the pages did not disrupt Anna, as she was absorbed in her own book. Kratos walked over her, standing in front of her. His shadow loomed above her, casting a dark outline on Anna's words; she did not seem to care.
"Anna." Kratos said gently.
"Hmm?" Ann responded. She did not look up from her book. Her features were still obscured by the brown leather and the yellow pages that fluttered about her.
Kratos crouched down. He reached both of his hands out and placed them on the bookshelf behind Anna., creating a cage from which Anna could not escape. He placed his face dangerously close to her.
"Anna." Kratos stated again, this time his voice was deeper, softer; he was entreating her.
Anna finally glanced up. She realized that both of Kratos' arms were surrounding her, pinning her to the shelf beyond. She blushed slightly as her green eyes met with Kratos' brown eyes.
Without another word, Kratos gently swept his lips against Anna's.
Kratos moved his lips; he allowed them to express everything he wanted to say but could not say. His lips told her that she was enchanting; his lips told her that he was sorry; his lips told her he'd protect her; his lips told her that he missed her; his lips told her he admired her; his lips told her desired her; his lips told her that he loved her. Not the insufficient love found in the word, but the consuming love in the emotion. Finally, with his lips, Kratos was able to tell Anna exactly how he felt.
He told her everything, with his lips.
And he told her all of it without a single word.