Sweet Nothings
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It is in the thickest of night, under the guardianship of the whimsical Moon, that the lovers meet. "The Witching Hour" it has been called, that time of night when what is so clear in the day is skewed by the mists and fogs of a foreign magic.
The Lady, having been of a culture that whispers old tales and folk lore around fires to the young of their tribe, clings to her lover and hides in the folds of his cloak, fearful of the spirits that whisper in the dancing shadows of the trees around them.
The man, raised in a cool and calculating nation, had once been scornful of his Lady's fears. Now though, he thinks upon that darkest and deadest hour when she first struck him as beautiful, and knows now that she had bewitched him.
His Lady trembles in his arms, and he bows his lips to her ear, whispering sweet nothings and hollow comforts, staying her fears, as he holds her close, marveling at the darkest deadest hour and its cunning magic, for nothing beyond such a phenomena could bond fire and water.
AN: I wanted to try something a little more serious and eloquent. For those who want to know why I haven't updated Identity in a long time, it's because I've been writing and editing it so that my work will be better quality. I'll be updating soon, so do not worry.
Ja Ne,
The Bender of the Wind