Reach

Sometimes, she remembered the first time. When they'd met. When this whole story began.

The canyon had been hot with sun and dust, her newly revived body slick with sweat and grit. His appearance been just another shock in those traumatic hours, those minutes where her heart had felt as though it would break her ribs. And not just because she was running.

It was because she was running from her father. Her father. And then, to top off everything, he'd ordered his men to kill an innocent stranger.

Sure, she knew how 'innocent' he was now. But then, it had been different. Then, everything had felt like it was her fault and she couldn't just stand by while he fell. And so without thinking, she had leapt after him, into the abyss, and reached out her hand.

Now, as she surveyed the destruction around her, surveyed Ahriman's world and felt the man who'd caused it standing beside her, she wondered what would have happened if she'd known this future then. She wondered if, instead of reaching for him, she would have let him die.

She wondered if it would have mattered.

Sometimes, he spent the night shaking. Nine months of Ahriman could do that to anyone, even the strongest. And he was strong, she knew that. Had depended on it. So whenever she felt the tremors shiver through the single traveling blanket they were forced to share, she never failed to curl closer to him in her sleep. And he would lean into the touch as if it were a lifeline, as if the crook of her fingers was all that kept him from plummeting.

Sometimes, it was. And when they woke up in the morning, it was to her flaming face and his drawling grin. But she never forgot how right it felt even while she slapped him off her.

Sometimes, she almost had enough of him.

It would be little things, little triggers that would set her off. A misplaced comment, perhaps. Or even just the look of his skin in the faded light. His tan had long paled, squeezed of colour by the unending night. She hated it, him, and herself.

So she would hiss at him. There was no room for screaming - not unless she felt suicidal enough to bring a horde of Ahriman's soldiers down their throats. So instead, she would speak quiet words that dripped poison down his face.

And when she was done, he would still have that hard, nasty smirk on his face that made it look like he was invulnerable.

Even thought both of them knew he wasn't.

And at those times, the gap between them was so wide she felt she could never reach across it.

Sometimes, she contemplated dropping him.

They would find a long lost plate somewhere, glowing brightly in a twisted sea of shadow. Or the darkness would hide a vein of crumbling rock, and his fingers would scrabble at air. Those were the times that she sometimes wished she could let it end. Let him fall. Let Ahriman swallow him whole.

But she never did. Because even while the tantalising image of him disappearing played behind her eyelids, her heart would beat its wings against her throat of its own accord. And the squeezing, the ache wouldn't stop until he was safely within her grip and back on the ground.

And so she always reached for him. Even when she told herself she didn't want to.

Sometimes, he was hurt. And sometimes, it was her fault.

This time, the Corrupted had delivered a vicious backhand, sending decay splattering all over the battlefield. He'd ducked, but she had committed too much to her swing. In the second that he realised her predicament, his duck had turned into a coiled leap. And the blow had passed to him, as he intended.

He'd crumpled. She'd let loose a hoarse cry. And then the rest of the fight had shrunk to seconds as she unleashed her fury, as she poured the bright, blazing light of her life into the ruins of what was once a person.

Still, it felt more like years had passed before she could slide to her knees in front of him, and cautiously reach out a tentative hand.

Please, please. Please don't be dead. Please...

His eyes had slurred open before her skin made contact. She'd pulled back her fingers as if his consciousness were a snake.

He was alive, and the sight of his crooked, surviving smirk reminded her that she hated him.

Sometimes, it would get too much for her.

The darkness. The fighting. The corruption. The stench. Her exhaustion. Her aliveness. Her hatred of him. She would crawl away from their single bedroll, the only thing they'd manage to salvage from the last town. And she would find a quiet place where she could sob until eyes blurred and shut out her existence.

At least, that's what she did until the night he found her. She'd felt the anger in his stride before she raised her head to see him - even while pouring out your misery, it was death to not be alert in Ahriman's world. He'd stood over her for a few minutes, as if now he'd found her and knew she was safe, he wasn't sure what to do with his hands.

A tiny, traitorous part of her had wished that he'd reach out for her. That he'd enfold her. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd turned sharply on his heel and walked back a few steps to give her privacy. And to keep watch for her, so that she could lose herself.

After that, the need to cry slowly drained away, leaving only a slight, nearly imperceptible ache. And thereafter, whenever she told herself that she hated him, that ache would feel a little more hollow.

Sometimes, the battles they fought were just draining. It was the knowledge that there was so much more to come that did them in. The understanding that the death of this one meant nothing, because there would always be more. Around the next corner, underneath the next ledge, beside the next location they sought. Everywhere they went in their search to defeat Ahriman, his soldiers and Corrupted stood in their way, and that made the brief, nasty tussles more exhausting than they should have been.

Not this time.

This time, she felt the blood quicken in her veins before they swirls of darkness even began to gather. Because this was the last. This was the last before Ormazd's Hall, this was the last before they unveiled the weapon that would end Ahriman forever.

Perhaps that was why when his bare hand reached for hers, this time she didn't pull back in disgust. Instead, she squeezed once. And in that second she gifted herself, she internally memorised the feel of his skin against hers; the creases and lines of his callused palms, the tenderness of his fingers. And after she'd committed them to heart, she let go, and they walked to the end together.

Sometimes, she looked back on those endless days and smiled.

Because it was funny. Funny how the first time they reached for each other was involuntarily, while he was dying.

Funny how the horrors of their world made a thief and a princess reach for each other in dream.

Funny how it took so long for them to do it awake.

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A/N - Greetings my dear, dear readers. Firstly, I just wanted to say sorry for taking so long with this - the last few weeks have been essays heaped on essays heaped on exam preparation, so I had to grit my teeth to squeeze this small drabble in. Hope it was worth the effort!

Secondly, thanks again to all of my lovely, lovely reviewers. You have no idea how bright you made my day shine - I'm so glad to know I'm not alone on this ride. I'm sorry I haven't responded to anyone yet - I shall be making my way through them slowly as my workload stress decreases. Thanks again!

Until the next time,

-Shadowhawke