Chapter 9—Love and Death, Pain and Bliss

Paris mourned his little brother. He stayed huddled in his tent, weeping without control. Tears stained the dirt floor. Grief so profound raked him, shook him, paralyzed him. He could not comprehend…could not believe, did not want to believe…

Where was Nayru? Did she not promise him, when he'd been a boy, that once his service to her was over, he would be happy? Eight years was his due to the Goddess. Eight more days and he would have done his duty by her. He would have been free. How could the Goddess of Love allow his brother to die, in such chance happenings?

Olean had arrived two days ago, early the morning after he'd sneaked off to Gerudo Fortress. Paris had thundered and protested; he was the elder brother and their parents were dead. Olean was not to leave the Castle. He was to stay safe and whole, not know discomfort at night for the hard ground or hunger for lack of good food. Olean was not to be there, and yet there he had been.

The brash youth had laughed in his face.

"Oh, Paris, must you always be so unfair?"

The Count had been glad of another hand and immediately assigned Olean to a post, one under Paris. Paris was grateful for small favors: under him, he could keep an eye on the boy, his brother.

And he had still died!

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"I meant only to save lives when we retreated."

It had not been a lie. A half-truth, maybe. Savannah had not wanted the Gerudo to die, but in retreating, she'd thought of herself. Of saving herself and Paris ridicule.

She almost laughed. They were guilty by mere association with each other. They were so deep in already, the meeting she had been contemplating could not possibly damn them any more.

Having reached such a decision, she had little to lose, except time. She didn't know what would happen once she left the Fortress, but she didn't care. Like a lover denied her beloved, she had attention only for him. And in truth, that was what she was. Denied.

Savannah packed nothing, she took no provisions, thought nothing through, only ran. She ran silently through the halls of the fortress, down the stairs, out across the night-cooled sands to the stables, to Shadow. Her mount was as eager to quit the place as she was. She wasted no time with a saddle or reins, only mounted and held on to his mane. They left quietly but quickly and if someone saw them, no alarm went up. No one was there to see them off, nor prevent her from her heart's goal.

They raced across bridges and sands and rocks uncounted. Seeing blindly, they moved like the wind, swift with only small indications of presence.

Savannah would not be denied. She could not bear it. The young Hylian's blood still stained her hands, even though she'd washed. She still felt the tightening of her heart when she thought of Paris's anger. Such mistakes she'd made. Such loneliness she felt. She could not bear it. Would not endure it.

So she went to Paris, the time it took having no meaning, the terrain they covered without thought.

She had enough presence of mind to slow down and dismount when she neared the Hylian camp. She left Shadow in the darkness, where he blended in with ease.

Her mind was a jumbled mess, though strangely organized. She didn't know what she would do once she found Paris, but it didn't matter. All that did matter was finding him, comforting him, comforting herself.

Her need consumed her so that she moved without thinking, without planning, with only instinct. Swift and silent, she was the slightly moving shadow out of eyesight that always missed being noticed. The dirt did not stir under her feet, the wind left her long brown-red-black hair alone, the hounds that were sleeping together did not bark at her intrusion. Even the Earth herself breathed with ease, not alerting the guards to Savannah's being there.

She did not know how she knew which tent was Paris's, but she went in without hesitation, moving the flap to the side and bending down to go in. She felt no fear that she might be wrong.

There Paris was, curled up in the back corner of the tent, weeping. He was sprawled tensely, leaning against a wooden pole that held the tent up. He looked up at her entrance, tears making trails down his face, his eyes swimming.

"Savannah," he breathed, reaching a hand out to her, his arm trembling, his hand unsteady. She reached out and caught his fingers in her own as she kneeled in front of him. She put his hand to her cheek, watching as another tear fell.

"You cry for the one I killed…don't you?"

His eyes never left her face, the pain there in her eyes, dry though they were. "He was my brother."

Savannah knew what it was to have siblings, though she had none of her own. Her friends in the Kokiri Forest had been her brothers and sisters, each precious to her in their own way. Each unique, each with a flame of life that burned so brightly it was beautiful. She had been ripped from them, so that to her, they were dead. They were lost.

She understood the pain in Paris's heart.

She leaned forward, intent on pulling him into her arms and just holding him, letting him cry, letting him know she was there, she was sorry. But instead, she felt her lips press against his. Shocked, she started to pull away, but he reached up and held her to him.

Paris put everything into their kiss, his anger, his rage, his pain and sorrow. And his love. Always his love.

Slowly the knot of throbbing ache inside them both began to ease, began to let go. It did not fade completely, but only let the stinging bite fall away so that they both needed comfort, pushing closer to each other, not thinking, only feeling. Sorrow mixed with something heady, something strong, so that neither knew what they were doing.

They made love. Tender at first, touching, sliding, exploring. Skin to skin, warm, close, comforted, they loved each other, a statement to the Goddesses that though some were dead, they were alive. They would continue to live. Opposites hovered in the tent, life and death, warm and cold, anger and joy, pain and pleasure.

When they finally came together, a star fell outside, streaking across the sky.

Afterward, their breathing still labored and uneven, the fine sheen of sweat still covering their skin, Paris ran his hands down her sides to her hips, then back up. He had cried all of his tears, those of bliss and of pain. Now, he only had the strength to worship her body. He touched her everywhere, and she responded, arching closer to his touch.

He didn't want it to end; he was so happy there. No loneliness, not really upset over Olean's death. He felt like he finally belonged. But this, at least, had to end. He knew it, and in the end he would not be so cruel as to keep Savannah for himself when she had a chance to be who she was born to be.

He was gathering the courage and strength to climb from her arms when the flap to his tent was thrown open, light spilling into the darkness, silhouetting a tall figure.

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TheFireSage and Thawn716, thank you both for your reviews.