Touch
Touch is a word. So many words. The hanyou and the miko wondered sometimes why others did not understand it. If something does not have a name, does it mean that thing does not exist? Does having a name, a word put to it, necessitate that something does exist? No. They knew better than anyone it was best for this to remain nameless.
His fingers were words; the way they traced her arms with most tender of finger tread. The way he wrapped his arms around her; the way their hands brushed, murmuring, one against the other or intertwined; it meant something although it remained nameless. A thousand words poured from the tender embraces, the times when they sat motionless together, breathing in the same vaporous anticipation, the contentment of being one if only in their dreams.
When they touched, there was contact as if one was bleeding into the other so that the barriers between them vanished. Their hearts combined with a drum-rolled panic each time she rode upon his back, each time he swooped her out of danger, each time he clung on and refused to let her say goodbye. Her hands on him belonged. It was a mutual acceptance. It was then that they wondered, idly- what is the word called love?