~ Safe in the Arms of Death ~

The Death Fey act as a cohesive unit, but they are not a court. They remain solitary. Although he would never try to call himself their king, Far Dorcha is their undisputed leader.

He is in so many ways the opposite of her - the High Queen, the embodiment of Order. She is reulpsed and intrigued by him in equal measure. Order, ever unchanging, has a healty fear of Death, that most drastic of changes.

He respectfully keeps his distance until such time as she beckons him nearer.

Laying his hands lightly upon her waist, he promises her, "You are safe from me."

To his great surprise, she allows the touch.

She, in turn, runs her palms over the bright scarlet silk of his shirt, savoring the slick feel of the material against her skin and the underlying warmth of his body, although her caress is too light to decipher the landscape of flesh beneath the fabric.

He keeps his hold on her light, his hands still while hers explore. Death is patient. He can wait however long it takes for her to learn to trust to him, to realize the truth of his promise.

Death is a type of order-keeping, after all.

~end~