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You’re fine until your knees hit the ground, when something recoils in the back of your mind like a warning sign. You brush it aside, focus instead on the warmth of your lover’s skin under your hands, and the way their stomach hitches when you graze your lips along the trail leading down, down, down…
You’re fine until they pull back your hair, when discomfort twists in your chest and you don’t know why. You pause in your handiwork, the mark on your lover’s thigh not yet dark enough to repay the ones they left where everyone could see. You’re new to this, it’s how you rationalise the churning unease.
You’re fine until your not, and the lack of experience tells you to look up, to find reassurance that you’re doing this right before you commit to removing the last piece of fabric between your mouth and their skin. You weren’t ready to open your eyes, for the perspective to shift.
Familiar is the darkened shadow that looms over you.
You’re all too acquainted with towering giants, and indomitable forces. How many times have they brought you to your knees? How many times have you lifted your head to meet with your death? How many…
You fucked up, and once again you’re out of luck. Your skin burns under the heat of adrenaline, the heat of shame. The fire raging through you screams. Stand up. Fight. Run. You dig your knees into the ground, but the heat of battle welds your legs in place.
Paralyzed, you flinch at a touch to your face. Someone calls your name. You barely hear it over the roar in your ears, of flames and steel and laughter.
You’re struggling to breathe now, and the call of your name grows more persistent. The situation must be bad to garner such concern, but it strikes you odd that there’s only one voice amongst the clamour in your head. No mocking, no speeches, no gloating.
You watch the shadow’s feet step out of sight and note the lack of clanking armour in their wake. Where they stood now lay only floorboards. You try to focus on the patterns in the grain. No blood, no ash, no earth.
Must be an inn. That’s the most rational thing that comes to mind. It would explain the fire and the smell of smoke. But it doesn’t explain why you can’t breathe. You wouldn’t be sitting here if the room was on fire, so why is this a struggle?
The sound of your name reaches you again, a brief distraction from the swell of a new kind of panic. The voice is closer now, coming from somewhere by your side. You watch as a hand enters your vision and places a mug on the floorboards in front of you. It’s water, they tell you. Safe to drink, and sure to help.
And you believe them. You believe them because you know this voice. This voice would move the heavens to keep you safe, and you… you have botched up a perfectly good date. The thought makes you laugh, though it’s more of a choke, so you reach for the mug to drown yourself out.
Your love cautions you to slow down, but it’s hard to part from the cool relief easing the tension in your throat. You try, and awkwardly sip your way through the contents. The firelight burns as bright as before, and you note how half your clothes and your loves, lay strewn nearby about the floor.
It’s hard to tell whose is whose because your vision keeps blurring, and your head feels so light. Miserable doesn’t quite cover this feeling, but it’s a starting point. Adrenaline thrums high in your veins, and your heart refuses to slow its rhythm just yet. You’re still in danger, you see. Not that there’s anything actually there to hurt you. You’re just a fool, with an imagination too large to handle.
You don’t remember exactly when the tears began, but your cheeks itch from the tracks they’ve left behind.
Your lover shuffles by your side, and asks quietly if they can take your hand. You take another gulp of water and pry one free of the cold surface, ashamed to note how much it shakes. Your lover's hand is steady though, a cool grip from holding the pitcher you chance between their legs.
They take your hand and pull it against their chest, drawing deep a slow and deliberate breath. They ask you to copy them, to try and match their even pace. They can count if you’d like them to. An easy challenge for someone as skilled as yourself, they joke, but perhaps you can humour them and give it a try.
Who are you to refuse such a request? You close your eyes, and listen to their voice, an echo of an old friend’s advice. You listen to their quiet words against the background of crackling logs. You listen as they breathe in at a pace you struggle first to match. It takes a few tries to find the rhythm, but they’re patient, holding your hand close so that even when your thoughts wander, you still feel the rise and the fall. Still feel the calming beat of their heart.
You’re not sure how long it takes for your own heart to settle, for the air to come easier to your lungs. You finish off the water and fiddle with the empty mug, nerves crawling with a myriad of uncomfortable sensations. Unfortunately you can’t find the words to explain yourself. You’re not even sure what happened.
You don’t need to though, not when the person who knows you best squeezes your hand and offers to haul your ass up from the floor. The world is a lot less stressful beneath the sheets, and they’ve had a rather long day. Not quite the ending either of you expected, but one that can end in comfort, over a hard floor.
You take the offer readily, surprised by the strength in their arms as you wobble on the way up, head still floating in the Sea of Clouds, though, perhaps a little closer to Azys Lla with the head ache this episode has brought on. Doesn’t quite hold a candle to the Echo, but you know well enough by now to get some rest.
Your love was right. The bed is far more comfortable, and all the better when they join you shortly after. You mumble some kind of apology into their shoulder and they have the audacity to laugh. Nothing worth worrying over, they tell you. Theirs is a future long to come, and there will be other ways to enjoy a cold night together.
They’d sooner see you smile, than see the fear in your eyes again.
You’ll remember that. Not that you could forget when your lungs still rattle, and your cheeks still itch. But you’ll leave the hard talks for tomorrow, leave them for when you’re able to think, and the wound of this evening isn’t so fresh.
You’ll be fine. With a little help, all wounds will heal in time.