They stand on the hilltop, and below them, undisturbed, is a field of blue flowers, softly touched by moonlight. Tall spires of unnamed flowers, as far as the eye can see. The blue blossoms spill over the slope and down into a hollow, blanketing the far banks and swells of the land.
Waves of cobalt blue whisper and sway in the breeze. Somewhere, a cricket sings his song to the night, a beautiful duet of insects and the murmur of shifting grass.
Soul descends the hill in silence and Maka follows close behind awash in the awe of it all. They wade through the hip-high flowers and they part around them like a tranquil sea.
"Watch your step Kid, don't go breaking your neck," Soul mumbles, grasping her gently by the elbow.
Down the slope, water bubbles out of the ground and spills across an outcropping of stone. It purls over boulders, the wild rush complementing her internal turbulence. The spring gurgles into a shallow clear pool, a hidden oasis in a myriad of nature. The prairie, seemingly so desolate and vast, never stops surprising her. If you looked closely, there were little places like this tucked away in secret, like valuable gems buried in the sand.
"Well, what do you think?" He asks, his arm sweeping wide causing the flowers to dance in his wake.
"It's beautiful." She breathes, feeling choked up by the sheer wonder. "I had no idea such a place existed on earth."
Maka bends at the waist burying her nose into the delicate flowers. She breathes deep and exhales slowly the sweet scent of spring and new life. "What are they called?" She inquires, not able to keep the silly smile from her face. Becoming giddy over flowers was most likely not a manly gesture, but being swept up in the moment she cannot contain herself. Soul smiles, not seeming to notice or care about the slip-up.
"The Spanish call them el Conejo, which means the rabbit. Us Texans call them bluebonnets."
"Bluebonnets. How very fitting."
Soul takes a seat on one of the many boulders shouldering the spring and stretches his long legs out from their walk.
His bearing is of a relaxed nature, his expression one of contentment that softens the hard plains of his jaw.
She fixes her gaze on the lounging cowboy, her heart swelling. She is content in his peace, his comfort adding to her own sense of joy.
She hesitantly sits down next to him, careful that they do not touch, her heart keeping time with the water. He sets the lamp on the ground and leans his rifle against an outcropping. He then turns the lamp's wick down low, causing the flame to fade to a small glow, allowing the night to settle in around them, snug and quiet. He lowers his voice as well before speaking, not wanting to break the spell of nature. It only seems natural, being in a place like this, a person's voice couldn't help but be a whisper of reverence.
"I found this place by accident, but the minute I saw it, I knew I was meant to share it with you."
The soft timbre of his words causes her hands to tremble in her lap. "I'm very glad you did," she whispers, meaning it.
"I figured you'd like it, seeing as how when we first met I found you on the side of the road picking flowers." She hears the teasing tone of his voice and catches a glimpse of his smirk in the moonlight.
"I told you, there's nothing odd about it, botanical interest is all the rage in London. The study of plants is a great pursuit for people of every class and gender!" Maka chirps indignantly. "Woah now, no need to get into a tizzy about it. Here sir botanist, come stick your feet in, it might cool off that head of yours." He jokes, bending down to tug at her boots. "Wha.. what are you doing?" She stutters, floored by his hands suddenly on her ankle.
"It's a beautiful night, and the water is clear, it'd be a crying shame not to dip our toes in for a bit." "Absolutely not!" Maka chokes, her breath hitching painfully as his deft fingers remove her stocking. She snatches her foot away from him, and he counters with a very perplexed look. "We don't flash our bare legs all about in England!" She tries to explain, only causing his face to draw more confusion. "What in Sam Hill? What's wrong with showing your legs?" "It's considered indecent and often quite scandalous." "Damn, you have the weirdest customs in your county." "I could say the same for yours." She retorts. Soul grunts, but instead of grabbing her foot again, he hunches over starting on his own feet, removing his boots and socks.
She watches by the light of the moon as he rolls his pants up to his knees and gingerly slips his long legs into the water. He makes a quiet hissing sound before his body completely relaxes.
"Suit yourself kid, but you're missing out. It feels fucking fantastic." The look of bliss on his face is enough to make Maka rethink her situation.
"Just pull up your pant legs, I promise no one here is going to be scandalized by your scrawny white legs." Maka lets loose a very unladylike snort, but she complies, swinging her now bare legs around and plunges them in. The water is freezing, coming straight out of the spring, but it is the clearest water she has ever seen. If the moon wasn't in and out of the clouds so much, she could have easily seen her reflection. The night air is cool on her bare skin, the cold water tingles and pricks at her skin, but it is refreshing. Soul kicks his feet back and forth, like a little boy playing in the water. It's enough to make Maka smile, despite the awkwardness of her bare skin and flaming face.
The trickle of water mingles with the sound of the wind. All around them the bluebonnets shift and sigh in contentment.
"Do you miss it?" He asks softly.
She turns to him in surprise. "Do I miss what?" "Your home. Your England." Maka leans back on her elbows, her eyes searching the stars. "Yes. I miss it very much sometimes."
A deep grimace marres his face.
"Do you miss it enough to go back?" He murmurs, worry creasing his features. "No, there's nothing left for me there." She says firmly. He rubs the back of his neck, visibly relaxing once again. "Good. Your home is here with us now." He says it so matter of factly that it causes her heart to stutter painfully.
"What if my uncle doesn't like me though? What if I'm not what he's expecting and sends me away?" "Then I'll convince him. I'll do whatever I can. I'll tell him... that I want you to stay here with us." Maka shakes her head and blinks her eyes rapidly, fighting back a sudden swell of tears. At this moment she feels accepted, wanted. It's an odd sensation to feel loved by so many people, but to have Soul, who never talks about how he feels, voicing that she is important to him... it's overwhelming. "What's wrong with your eyes kid?" Soul lightly teases, catching the glint of her eyes.
"It's nothing." Maka squeaks, turning her face away from his prying eyes, embarrassment coursing through her. Why must she always cry so much in front of him? "The flowers are making my eyes itch." Soul ducks his head trying to catch a glimpse of her down-turned face. "Another terribly executed lie."
"Is not!" Maka lies, his teasing reducing her to the comebacks of five years old. In a bout of pettiness, she pushes at his shoulder, trying in vain to dump him into the water.
Soul softly laughs at her weak attempt and captures her wrist. He's been drinking, but his hand is steady and surprisingly gentle. Maka looks up at him, her eyes going wide. He holds her gaze, steady and unwavering. "Your eyes... even at night, they're so damn green." The air stalled in his lungs, his expression shifting from mesmerized to bewilderment. He jerked back from her, his face turning bright. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I fucking said that."
Maka takes a slow gulp to dislodge the lump in her throat.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were still drunk." She says, every muscle in her body tense.
"You're not so serious when you drink."
He tilts his head back and chuckles softly. "I reckon my mouth gets a little more reckless when I drink. That's why it's a rare occurrence for me."
"You stopped drinking an hour ago though." She says, eyeing his rosy cheeks and hooded eyes.
"Well I guess that's not completely true, I've been sneaking small sips here and there." He takes Black Star's flask from his pocket and waves it triumphantly in the air. Maka groans, not knowing how, but at some point, he had stuffed his hand into her back pocket to retrieve it from her person. The audacity of this man.
"Don't you think you've had enough for one night? I'm not strong enough to carry you home." She chides.
His breath falls softly from his lips, a laughing sigh at her begrudging face. He takes a long swig, whisky droplets leaking from the corner of his mouth. Maka is rendered speechless as she watches those droplets' slow descent. Almost as slow as her descent into full-blown madness.
"Last drink of the night, I promise." He says handing her the flask back. "I'll drink to that." She scoffs, and tilts her head back, finishing the last bit of whiskey. It tastes like fire as it slides down her throat, but the warmth mixed with the chilly night air is exhilarating.
Soul quietly hums, an unknown song to her, but it matches the mood of the evening.
The moon goes behind a wall of clouds, draping them in thick darkness, both intimate and intense. It is both beautiful and eerie all in the same breath.
"I know today was a long day, but I'm glad we made the journey here. Thank you, I've enjoyed spending the evening with you." She confesses quietly.
Soul's humming stops abruptly, his body going quite still.
His eyes lock with hers, and even in the dark, they gleam like fire.
"I've been trying to figure you out,
but I still don't get you, Kid." His voice is low and halting and warms her more than the whiskey does.
"What's not to get?" Maka sighs. "I'm British and I'm stubborn."
"No, not that." Soul groans, his face brooding, his next words stuck on the tip of his tongue.
"Why... why do you like me so much? I don't understand it."
"That's..." what could she bloody say to that? Maybe inebriated Soul wasn't so great after all. The skin across his cheekbones is flushed, and he presses his lips together hard.
He was waiting for her to answer and it was somehow endearing to see him looking so uncomfortable. He cares what I think of him.
She felt a sweet warmth when she looked at him. He was such a flamboyant man; others might see him as stoic or dangerous, but she had witnessed the other pieces of him, with his ready smile and a big laugh.
Maka clears her throat, looking up into his expectant face. "Where do I even start?" She whispers hoarsely. "I like everything about you." Soul rolls his eyes, but he doesn't stop her from speaking. Emboldened, Maka clenches her fists and continues. "I like how kind and gentle you are." The silence of the night splinters as he breaks out into hysterical laughter; a sort of half chuckle, half splutter. "Kindness and gentle?" An amused expression quirks up the side of his mouth as he studies her. His fingers reached out, to ghost lightly over her cheek. Every muscle in her body goes rigid at his touch, his fingers igniting a trail of fire across her skin. "These bruises I left on your face don't speak of kindness. They speak of violence and brutality. There is nothing gentle about me, kid." His touch hovers over the now fading bruises, hesitant and reverent. Even as they heal and disappeared, in his eyes he would always picture them there. Those dark marks, left by his anger.
She waits until he removes his hand before exhaling a deep and shaking breath.
"No," she rasps, "You are gentle and kind, I've seen it." This time Soul did not laugh. His gaze fell to the ground, his shuffling in the water. "I'm too savage." He huffs, his shoulder leaning heavily into hers. "Just because you were raised by Indians doesn't mean you are a savage." She scolds lightly, without thinking.
His eyes snap to hers, his breath hitching in his chest.
Bloody hell...
She had learned of his past a while back, but now he knew that she knew, and the air between them hung stifling with unspoken acknowledgment.
"So you know." It wasn't a question. Her head bobbed a nervous nod, heavy and final.
He waits until she lowers her head, breaking their eye contact, to exhale an old man's weary sigh.
"I knew someone would blab to you about my past soon enough." He pats her lightly on the shoulder like a child who has broken something valuable but is instantly forgiven for it.
"There's no need to talk about it further. You know my background now. There isn't a lot left to say." "You can always talk to me about anything, even your past." Maka breathes timidly, not daring to overstep this new territory. It's the first time he's mentioned anything about himself or his past and her heart beats a sporadic tempo in her ribs.
"Like I said, there's nothing to talk about. I was a captive as a child, and because of that, I'm fucked up. You know what I'm talkin' about then when I say I'm savage. It has nothing to do with them and everything to do with me. That hunger I feel for war, to howl at the moon, to sharpen my spear for battle. That restless spirit that resides inside me. It was instilled in me as a child, and I can't break it. It's ingrained inside of me." His voice is cold and full of hate. The intensity of his gaze is almost too much.
He waits for her to say something, but her words are stuck.
Maka swallows audibly, her breath backed up, hot in her throat. "Does that scare you?" He asks, a panicked expression flitting across his handsome features. "No." She says it simply, with no hesitation. The force of her omission is enough to visibly steal the air from his lungs. Maka presses on, taking advantage of his breathless stupor. "What happened to you as a child was horrible, but it doesn't define who you are. You are brave. You have a warrior's spirit. I've witnessed that side of you too."
A look of disdain distorts his mouth. "A warrior's spirit, with no war to fight but inside my head." A hushed tone wedges itself between his words. "There's a wildness in me. I feel like I can barely contain it sometimes."
"Listen to me," she says gently, emphasizing each word with a pat of her hand on his cheek, forcing his eyes her way.
"You are formidable in a fight, I've seen that first hand." His eyebrows draw together in an anguished expression, but Maka brings her hand up to stop him from speaking. "But... you are also formidable in other ways. You fight fiercely, but you love just as fiercely. You are loyal to a fault and tough as nails.
I admire the wildness in you, it makes you truly unique." Soul's mouth opens and then snaps shut, a strangled sound caught in his throat. Her neck has started to form a crick from looking up at him, but a low and pleasant hum warms her blood. It's not everything she wants to say to him, but it's a good start. It's embarrassing to tell him how she views him and judging by the flush on his cheeks it's just as painful for him to hear these words. "I'm not trying to pry into your past, but I'm here if you ever want to talk about it more." She says gently, trying to catch his averted gaze.
"You may not see yourself as I do, but I hope you know how grateful I am to you, for taking me in, for everything you have taught me." She continues, trying in vain to convey a small portion of the emotions pulling at her heart.
Soul shrugs his mighty shoulders and averts his eyes, no longer able to withstand her praise.
"It's nothin'." He murmurs. "Well, it's bloody something to me!" Maka insists, her voice raising an octave. He lifts his chin, eyes shining."It's my job."
"You're dedicated to this land and to us," Maka motions in the direction of the camp, where Tad and Black Star are sleeping peacefully. "You care about the safety and well-being of everyone here. Enough so that you would put your own well-being at risk." He shifts his gaze to something out on the prairie, searching for something in the dark.
He mulls over his words a bit before answering.
"So would you. You have a warrior's spirit too." He says quietly, firmly. Maka presses a hand to her throat, heat running down her neck. "I don't know about that... I'm a fancy pants Englisher, remember? You said so yourself. I wasn't raised to be a warrior. I don't possess that kind of spirit."
"No," a twinge of anger laces his voice. "I was wrong about you." He raises his chin, the dim moonlight illuminating his face and showing how serious his expression is.
"You went in that well today. You went in for Tad without a second thought to your own safety. That took true grit. You didn't even hesitate." "Anyone would have done the same," Maka mumbles sheepishly. "No. I don't know many cowboys who would do that. You saved him, and for that I owe you. My respect, my gratitude, it's yours Kid." His voice is unwavering and final. Maka ducks her head in respect, but also to hide the color on her face.
They sit in the quiet evening air for a time, an underlying current humming thick. It could be the approaching storm, or possibly between the two of them. At last, Maka breaks the silence, voicing the first thing that comes to mind. "It's beautiful here. It was worth the walk."
Soul leans back on his elbows, surveying the moon-drenched flower field. He still looks unsure of himself, but this peaceful place they reside in has a certain magic about it. He gives her a faded smile. "I could tell you a story about the flowers. If you'd like?"
"A story?"
"If you're into that kind of stuff?" He's teasing her, knowing how much she loves books and a good story, but she nods enthusiastically.
"It's a story told by the Comanche people. Passed down through the generations." Maka holds her breath, but there is no hate in his voice this time. "There were bad times when I was with them, but not all the time. Sometimes they told me stories, treated me kindly like I belonged with them."
There are so many questions she wants to ask him about his time with the Comanche, but all she can manage to do is place her hand on his arm. He looks down at her hand and smiles softly, accepting her small form of comfort.
"Our story starts as most do..."
Maka sighs contentedly, letting the night air and his voice wash over her. His voice thick with his smokey accent, his eyes far away.
"A long time ago..."
A long time ago, a great drought-plagued this land.
The rivers ran dry, the grass turned brittle and brown, and the ground cracked under the scorching sun. Many of the Comanche people were lost to famine and disease, and in this village, none suffered more than one solitary little girl. Her name was She-Who-Is-Alone, for the drought had taken her whole family from her. The villagers raised her as best they could, but times were hard, especially for the young.
The Comanche people waited for many moons, for the sky to open up and quench their dying lands, but the rain never came.
Desperate, they cried up to the sky their lips chapped and their voices choked by the white alkaline dust. "Oh, Great Spirits! The land is dying and your people are too! Have we angered you? Is this our punishment? Tell us what we must do to gain your favor back. Please send us rain so life will return to the prairies." For three days and nights, the Comanche danced and prayed, waiting and hoping for a sign.
The shaman of their village, old and wiser than all others, went up into the high plains and canyons to converse with the Great Spirits alone. On the third day, the shaman returned, weary, but with good news. The people gathered around, eager to hear what the shaman had to say.
"The Great Spirits are angered by our selfishness. We take from the land without thought. We neglected our world, and care not for the life in it. We do not respect mother earth or her creatures. For generations, we have taken without thanks and we give nothing back to her in return. The Great Spirits demand we make an offering, by burning the most valuable possession among us. The ashes of the offering are to be scattered to the four points of the earth, the Home of the Winds. When the offering is made the drought and the famine will cease."
The people of the village rejoiced at this and sang happy songs of thanks. But what of value could they give?
"Surely it is not my favorite hunting bow?" One warrior exclaimed.
"Maybe it's my favorite blanket?" One woman chimes in.
For hours the people debated among themselves, wondering what could be the most valuable possession. Finally, She-Who-Is-Alone stepped forward, her voice almost lost in the crowd. She stands before her whole village, nervously clinging to an old rag doll.
"My most valuable possession is this doll. I will give it up for my village." She proclaims boldly.
The men and women of the village laugh and pat her on the head saying, "Oh little one, surely the great spirits do not want your doll. It is old and dirty and of no value. The great spirits must want gold, fine furs, and our very best things."
Despite the teasing of her people, She-Who-Is-Alone knew in her heart that she must give her doll to the spirits. So later that night, once the council fires had died down and the last of the tipi flaps had closed, she snuck out into the quiet prairie, with nothing but her beloved doll pressed tightly to her heart. She ran to the sacred home of the four winds up high above the canyons and valleys below. She looked down at her doll, sadness filling her heart. This doll was old and dirty, but it was her most valuable possession. It was all that she had left from her family. The button eyes had been sewn on by her mother, the doll's hair had been from her brother's favorite pony, and the Blue Jay feathers in her doll's hair had been gathered by her father. She loved this doll, more than anything, but she also loved her people. The thought of her people and this land they called home dying was more than she could take. So with her heart heavy, she gathered dry twigs and built a small fire.
"Oh, Great Spirits! Please take my doll and send rain to my people!" She shouts to the sky. "This doll is all that I have left from my family who were taken by the famine. Please accept my offering!"
Then, she thrust her doll into the fire, thinking of her family and all the suffering of her people. She watched until the flames died and the ashes had grown cold. Then, She-Who-Is-Alone scooped up the ashes and scattered them to the Home of the Winds, the North and the East, the South and the West. And there she fell asleep under the stars, ash stains on her fingers and tears running down her cheek until the first morning light woke her. As she awoke she looked down into the valley and over the hills, and stretching out from all sides where the ash had fallen, the ground was covered in flowers. Beautiful flowers as blue as the feathers in her doll's hair.
As the people awoke from their tipis, they could scarcely believe their eyes. They joined She-Who-Is-Alone on the hill, marveling at the miracle. The people rejoiced as she told the story of her sacrifice and they cried tears of mourning at her sorrows. There was no doubt about it, the flowers were a sign of forgiveness from the Great Spirits. As the people gathered She-Who-Is-Alone into their arms and they celebrated the young girl's courage, warm rain began to fall. The rain had returned, and soon the land came back to life, green and lush once more. Thanks to one little girl who gave up everything she loved, the people once more thrived. In honor of her sacrifice, the Comanche lovingly renamed the little girl. From that day on she was known as She-Who-Dearly-Loves-Her-People.
And every spring since then, the Great Spirits remember the little girl's sacrifice by filling the hills and the valleys with beautiful blue flowers. Even to this very day.
"Wow." Maka finally breathes, her eyes misty with starlight, entranced by the story Soul has weaved.
The world is still, the only sound is the thrumming of their hearts and the slow purling of the water. The spring shimmers clearly as if fistfuls of diamond dust have been scattered across it, and lightning bugs sparkle over the flower field like a million stars falling from heaven. They are both quiet, eyes drinking in the night wrapped around them.
"What a sad and beautiful story. Is it a true story?" She asks, her curiosity high.
Soul shrugs his burly shoulders, his eyes are aglow with a strange inner calm.
"Who's to say? As time goes by, stories have a funny way of blurring the lines between fable and truth."
Soul scratches his head in thought, his white hair glinting in the moonlight. "I think this story has a warning in it as well. It has a truth about it, how we take from the earth and never give anything in return. I feel that one day it might catch up to us."
Maka's heartaches as she looks out across the flower-shrouded meadow, still so untouched by man.
"What can we do, to give back?" She asks, her voice wavering.
"Nature does not hurry, everything happens in its own time. We cannot control it or master it, yet it is still perfect in its own right. All we can do is respect it, and leave it a little better than the way we found it."
"How very poetic, Evans." Maka smiles, feeling moved by his words.
A quiet chuckle escapes his lips in return. "I suppose I get a little soft-hearted about it, but this place is my home, and I want it to stay like this forever."
That's a very admirable ambition."
"When we first met, you said that you didn't see anything special about this place and I almost whipped your sorry ass. I reckon that's changed though?"
Maka clasps her hands in her lap and releases a breathy sigh. "I've only been in your country for a little while now, but I feel a fierce love for it. This land that holds your heart so close, has begun to capture mine as well. There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
Soul's mouth softens, his approval clearing flitting across his handsome face.
"I also like how She-Who-Is-Alone was renamed at the end of the story, and how she wasn't completely alone after all." Maka contemplates out loud.
Soul nods his head in agreement. "It's a good story, no one wants to be alone or be an outcast." There's a sharp edge to his voice, a mix between longing and trying not to care too much.
They've had such a beautiful evening, it'd be a shame to bring up anything to make him uncomfortable, but she can't help the next words that tumble from her mouth.
"Do you feel like an outcast?"
It's a stupid question, she knows the answer, has seen with her own eyes the way most people outside of the ranch avoid him. The looks and the whispers. For a moment she sees his face darken, and she fears he is about to shut her out again, once more dropping the veil on his emotions. Instead, he shocks her with his honesty.
"Yes, most of the time." He admits. His expression is both afflicted and accepting. "I feel guilty about it though. Stein and everyone at the ranch have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome and accepted. The problem is everyone else. What they say, what they think."
She skewers him with an unflinching look, her fists in her lap now shaking.
"Fuck what they bloody think."
Soul's eyebrows shoot up and he lets loose a low whistle. "Damn... that's the first time I've ever heard you cuss properly. I didn't know you had it in you kid."
A slow grin creases his face despite their gloomy topic. Maka is mortified with herself, but it feels good to let an obscenity slip for once, and she means every word of it. She feels so much outrage at those who have made him feel alone his whole life. Her anger is hot and not even the icy spring water can quench it.
"I mean it though! Who cares what they think. They are ignorant wankers, the whole lot of them!"
Soul's head falls forward, his whole body shaking with suppressed laughter. "Damn it, kid, you're killing me," He gasps between breaths.
She doesn't find it the least bit funny, not even close, but seeing him holding his sides and trying to rein in so much laughter, well it dampens her ire, at least for now.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Kid." He says wiping his eyes with his shirt sleeve. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who's made me laugh as much as you do."
A warm ache settles into her chest and a bold blush stains her cheeks. She is beyond pleased and her body is betraying her. She is very thankful for the dark night that envelops them. Soul's laughter finally quiets and he turns to her, his face open.
"You're right. I shouldn't care so much what others think or say. If I'm being honest it's more about how I view myself that's the problem."
Maka nods her head, understanding the feeling. His heart is as stormy as the distant clouds rumbling.
"How do you view yourself?"
"I hate myself." He says simply, without malice or regret.
"Why?" She gasps, her heart stalling painfully.
He tugs at his shirt collar like it's suddenly too tight.
"Because I miss them sometimes."
"You mean your captors?" She whispers.
His head jerks and a grimace marres his features. "Yeah. I spent my whole young life with them. I barely remember my parents. They killed them, scalped them, and took me away... and I hate them for that, but I also don't hate them, completely. That's why I hate myself, because a part of me calls to them, to go back. I'm a man straddling two worlds and a stranger in both. I don't know where I belong."
Without thinking, Maka throws her arms around him. Soul freezes but doesn't push her away, giving her a small glimmer of hope.
"You belong wherever your heart tells you." She says, her voice muffled by his shirt. "You don't have to choose a world to live in, you make your own path. You shouldn't hate yourself for having mixed feelings. Your heart doesn't have to be filled with hate."
Soul's body relaxes in her embrace, just as the first few raindrops begin to fall on her head. Only, it isn't rain. She pulls back, looking up at his tear-stained face. He scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand. "Damn it, kid," He croaks, "You make me cry more than anyone too." A half-laugh half sob escapes his mouth and his arms tighten around her. "It's the booze. It makes me crazy."
"Yes, that's definitely it." She says, squeezing him affectionately, "It has nothing to do with you already being crazy."
Soul laughs softly, and slowly lets her go.
"Thank you for listening. I've never said a word about this to anyone. My chest feels a little lighter."
Maka shrugs sheepishly. "You don't have to thank me. We're friends, remember."
"Yeah, how could I forget." He says, giving her a watery smile.
"Maybe sometime, when I'm ready, I can tell you about the good times I had with them, not just the bad ones."
Maka smiles gently up at him, her heart aching and full.
"Of course, we can talk anytime you need."
A flash lit the world white, a crack of thunder resounded almost instantly, making Maka and Soul both jump.
The wind groans suddenly, sending the flowers around them into a frenzy. The smell of rain is earthy and impending.
"Shit, we stayed here too long." He curses as he hurries to put his boots back on. "We need to get going. Being caught in a storm out in the open is not a great time."
Heart hammering Maka puts her boots on as well, hyper-aware of the black churning clouds that smear the sky. Soul shoulders his rifle and turns the lantern wick higher, bathing them in a flickering orange glow. His face looks pinched and serious in the light, making her pulse quicken momentarily with fright. They set a quick pace, leaving their blue flower sea and babbling spring behind. She is sad to see it go, but the memory of this place will forever be seared in her heart.
The world flashes to white clarity as another crack of lightning strikes. It begins as a whisper in the air, the far-off sound of rain coming. As wild as any beast, it grows in substance and intensity, growling with its own spite. The world takes on an unearthly aspect, washed white in lightning. The tall grass doubles over seething, nearly pressed flat by the wind. Maka clutches at her hat fearful that if it blows away she will never see it again, lost to the prairie forever.
A light drizzle comes. Maka's hair sticks to her neck and face as rivulets run down her body. It is cold and wrenches the breath from her body. Soul picks up their pace, nearly running through the wet grass.
The drizzle is quickly followed by a deluge, heavy sheets of rain falling from the clouds. The sky seems to open up and pour down its wrath upon them. The rushing water extinguishes the lantern, thrusting them into complete darkness.
"Shit! Stay close Kid!" Soul bellows over the raging storm. He latches on to her wrist, his fingers firm and sure. She has no doubt he will lead her to safety. If anyone could find their way back in the dark it would be him.
Their boots make sucking sounds in the mud, water swiftly rising around them. The rain increases until it is sizzling and angry. Raindrops sear the air, ripping it apart with its stinging silver bullets. It feels like cold fire on her exposed skin.
Soul stops suddenly, and she nearly slams into his back. He shucks off his duster and wraps it around her. She tries to say thank you for the coat, but her voice is snatched away by the storm. He takes her wrist again and leads her through the pelting rain and howling wind. The coat helps, but his fingers have grown cold and she can no longer feel her face. Their steps feel lurching and never-ending as they flee the unforgiving downpour. Finally, after what must be hours, Soul stops, cocking his head to the side, listening. Maka strains her ears, but water is the only thing that rushes in.
"That's the river! We're almost there!" He shouts close to her ear.
As they draw closer the sound of the river becomes an audible roar, drowning out the thunder above them. The shallow water that she had splashed in yesterday is now a crashing torrent of floodwaters. Soul skirts the river, staying close enough to follow its winding path, but far enough away from the edge. The world flashes white and Maka can see down the sides of the bank, a shiver running down her spine. The water is swift and deep and blacker than the night around them. She is thankful that they don't have to cross it. Soul navigates them through the storm like he's done it his whole life. He cuts through tree lines and over uneven ground that has gone slick with mud and debris. He stops only long enough to listen or look at the sky. She can feel his body shaking, from cold or from nerves she isn't sure, but he doesn't complain or despair. He continues to move forward, his hand iron tight around her wrist.
Maka feels miserable, but his dauntless march and his strong presence gives her courage.
Lighting slices through the sky and falls to the ground in an earth-shuddering rumble. Maka stifles a scream as a nearby tree explodes alight with fire, and then is just as quickly extinguished by the pelting rains.
Soul stops and hunkers down, watching and waiting. Another lighting bolt zig-zags above them, tearing at the sky with white-hot fury. It gives him enough light to see dark shadows blotting the distant rise.
"There! The wagons!" He shouts, nearly hauling her off her feet.
They sprint in the direction the wagons had last appeared, hoping to run smack dab into them. The world is dark, the rain is blinding, and the soggy grass clinging to their bodies makes their progress slow.
A warm glow cuts through the dark, a beacon on the desolate prairie. Someone has lit a lantern in one of the wagons. Little Tad's face peers out of the canvas, anxiously scanning the darkness, waiting for their return.
Soul turns to her and grins triumphantly and she lets out a strangled laugh.
They had made it, the light now leading them home. And though they are soaked to the bones, weary, and nearly frozen stiff, something warm blooms in her chest. Soul has led her through the worst of it, and now, even though there is no chance of them becoming lost or separated, he still holds onto her wrist, like his life depends on it.