Valkyrie Cain stood in her kitchen leaning against the counter, watching the kettle heat as Solomon Wreath stood across from her. She took in his appearance, dark –as always- immaculate, serious; he looked back at her, and their dark eyes clashed. To anyone else he would have looked eerie, vaguely angry, but Valkyrie knew him. And she saw beneath the angry, the solemnity in his expression and she saw wariness.
He was tired.
They were all tired.
Tired of war, and mysteries, and bad guys; they were tired of friends becoming martyrs, and children becoming casualties.
"Wreath." Valkyrie said, and Wreath tilted his head at her.
Her heart didn't even pound as she stepped towards him.
He stared at her, but didn't move as she touched his hand.
"Wreath." She said again as she took the cane from his hand and placed it carefully against the wall.
He didn't move, didn't even blink as she brushed her fingers against his jaw and kissed him.
She pulled back, and he pushed forward, pushing Valkyrie against the wall, and kissing her again.
She gasped against his as he moved, kissing her neck and fingering the zipper of her shirt. The kettle whistled and Valkyrie sent it flying with mass of shadows.
They stumbled to the floor a mass of twisting bodies and moaning mouths. They fought, and Solomon won; he looked down at Valkyrie his dark eyes glistening. He bent down, and breathing against her neck he said, "Valkyrie, say my name." His voice was demanding, and solid, despite his feverish hands on her clothes; on her body.
"Wreath," She moaned, and he bit her, bit into the flesh and tasted her blood. She cried out and bucked against him, and his cold hands.
"My name," he growled, "say my name you stupid girl."
"Solomon," she said and bucked against him.
He kissed her thigh, and shifted so he could roll his hips against hers. Valkyrie's fingers dug into his back, and he could feel her ring, he could feel the magic ebb and flow with every thrust and buck of their joined hips. Her fingers drifted and felt and touch and Solomon closed his eyes when she arched against him, and called, no screamed his name. Solomon, Solomon, Solomon, her chant rang in his ears.
They were panting when he bent down, and whispered her name softly. She looked at him flushed and sated and tired, and reached to kiss him, dragging their bodies close to mingle on the cold floors. Long after her heart slowed, and her eyes drifted closed Solomon remained awake, his back against the cold of the kitchen floor, and his arms full of a lithe half-woman girl-child, and his fingers dragged against her skin marveling at the heat it radiated, heat undaunted, un-quelled by the shadows that often enveloped it.
When Solomon did fall asleep, he dreamt wistfully of shadows, and heat and sweet kisses. When he woke up he was cold naked and alone on the coach in the next room.