It was hard to read his face when she lifted her eyes from the strings of her lute to him. Of course, it was always hard to read his face. Marcus kept his thoughts and feelings locked behind the mask of cold strength he habitually wore. Sometimes, though. Sometimes, he dropped it. For her. Sometimes...
He opened his eyes slowly and her breath caught in her throat as the smile she had come to recognize as one he reserved only for her lit his eyes with the warmth of emerald fire.
"That was...different. I must say. But good, that much is undeniable."
Lyra smiled back shyly, shrugging her shoulders with an air of nonchalance.
"So, what do you think?"
"What do I think?" Marcus stretched out on the stone floor of the cavern, folding his hands behind his head and looking to the cieling as if trying to decipher an answer from the cracked stone. "I think that given enough time, you could challange all but the eldest of the elven Songweavers. Though, I must admit. Your song does beg one question."
She tilted her head, lifting a delicate brow slowly. "Oh? And what question is that?"
Marcus turned those eyes to her again. Eyes like shadows in the forest at twilight. "Who is it about."
Lyra stared at him. And then she laughed, throwing her head back with helpless, joyful amusement. For a moment, Marcus watched her, confused. Then their eyes caught across the distance between them and he laughed too with a rare, full-throated warmth, and time stretched unnoticed between them as the sounds twined together in an echoing song.