Cupid's Bow
Chapter 20
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We're silent that morning.
My warming daze couldn't last forever, so at last when we'd separated, I'd had a whole body blush as I stumbled over to a small pool. The water sizzled on my skin upon meeting, over and over again, like I was burning on the inside – feeling both nice and not, both hot and cold.
"Stop it," I'd whispered, palming my red, red cheeks. "Just stop."
When I'd gathered myself as much as I could, I'd turned around and walked back to Edward. He was sitting where I'd left him. One hand was clutching his chest, the other, floating mid-air, a phantom grasp.
Hesitantly, I'd lifted a hand, gingerly laid it on his hot shoulder. "Edward?"
His furrowed brows and shadowed gaze had lifted, at my call or touch, or both. Slowly, he had lifted his head, and my breath caught at the wide-wet of his eyes.
He'd smiled, sadly, and nodded his head.
Then he rose, tall and strong, looking down at me with eyes so full it rattled me to my core. Green and gold spun from his gaze, weaving together like glittered pools of thread, tangling my feet and rooting me here, always.
He'd touched my cheek, hands so gentle.
I wanted to say . . . but my throat had tightened to the point of pain.
Then his fingers had slipped and so had his eyes, snapping threads that could only ever be: temporary.
So now as we walk, we're silent; in words and glances and touches.
And I know, without a doubt, that this is what dread feels like.
OoOoOo
OoOoOoOo
OoOoOo
It feels like we've been walking for only a minute when he stops in front of some greenery.
I stare at it with ill-concealed feeling. As soon as he pushes it aside, I'll find the Thing, and what choice will I have but to collect it, and return to Earth?
I know what I must do, but I don't relish the thought. Not like I did when I was dropped here, just shy of a week ago.
I pull my gaze away from leafy green to a more complex hue. Edward's gaze is fixed on mine, frozen, and I can see his panic just as clearly as I can feel mine. My mind just needs to trip, to stumble over into the realm of why, but instead I leap forward, and I hug him.
"Thank you," I whisper, leaning up on my tiptoes so I'm closer to his ear. "For everything."
And slowly, his tense body uncoils beneath mine, and then his arms are slipping around my waist. My toes falter, and my feet fall into the soft, but it doesn't matter because he comes with me.
I squeeze him so tightly, wanting him to understand, but the comfort of this touching is two way. It makes me ache – bittersweet – with the thought of holding on, and letting go.
Tears spring so I close my eyes, but they dribble past my lashes, falling from my own skin to sink into his. "I won't forget you," I promise with a tremor. And I won't. Because his whole existence, his essence, has made me better. Their teachings are not infallible, and neither are their truths. Edward is a prime example of that, and he opened my eyes – stopped me from seeing blind – without even intending to do so.
It's not just false-thinking he's disbanded, either, but the idea of good and bad. There is no set way to be, and that's not wrong. There's truth and there's kindness, and far from restricting me it's made me feel . . . it's made me feel. I've laughed, I've eaten ridiculously good tasting things and I've slept under the stars. I've been touched and hugged and held and done all in return, and it never felt like anything pointless. To Edward, it is a need, and to everyone else on this whole bloody planet. And it's not scandalous and they're not beasts for doing it. It's just how they are. It's their: how to be.
And I'm crying because I'm going to miss it.
Because this is goodbye.
I give him one last squeeze, so hard it aches, before unwinding my arms from around him. My gaze tips to the ground as his arms reluctantly break away from me, because as nice as the truth can be, it can also hurt.
His eyes, I imagine, are tangled threads, and I can't watch them fray.
So I take a step back and I turn, fingers running through green.
I won't make him do this: the weight of this will be mine.
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A/N: Short and achy: sorry. But needs must.