Chapter Text
Isobel sits by the fire in her room at the Last Light Inn, letting herself feel her father’s death in all its weight. Aylin circles the inn, enjoying the feel of wind on her wings once again. Isobel had asked for a few moments alone with her thoughts, and Aylin obliged without complaint. For all her grandeur and loftiness, Aylin knows that a knight’s first duty is service to her lady, and service often means bowing one’s head and stepping aside. At least for a moment.
Isobel hopes that a moment is all she will need. Not to mourn, as she is not so naive as to think she can resolve her father so quickly. Just a moment to settle, to take note, to feel her grief, and to accept. Even after so much time, she struggles to reconcile the man Ketheric became with the father who raised and loved her, who taught her about Selûne and the beauty of the moonlit night, who supported her when she insisted she was a girl and never once used her forsworn name after. She still cannot conceive of that man turning into the broken, tired shell that woke her from death. She cannot help but wonder if it is her fault somehow, if there is something she could have done to let him know that she would never want him to become a monster in her name. Had she asked too much of him? Maybe if she had been better, less demanding of him, he would not have felt so empty when he lost her. She can feel tears beginning to form.
With a gust of wind, she feels the cool touch of armor embracing her. Isobel reaches up and places a hand on Aylin’s arm. Aylin loosens her embrace to stroke Isobel’s cheek with a gauntleted finger. Her touch is as light and soft as moonlight. With a flash, Aylin’s helmet is gone and she kisses Isobel on the head. “My Darling, I swore that I would always be there to hold you when you cry. It pains me to know you may have shed a single tear without me there to catch them, that my oath was unfilled.” Aylin drops the embrace but leaves a soft hand on Isobel’s shoulder as she circles, only removing it when she kneels before her beloved.
Isobel smiles through the tears, her knight glowing hot in the light of the fireplace. “You were held captive where no light reaches and without word of me. Forced to die countless times to sate a spiteful creature’s loathing. What cruel mistress I would be to name you forsworn? What of your tears?” Isobel places her hand on Aylin’s cheek and traces one of the many cracks. “Do not forget that I have sworn oaths to you as well, My Bright Knight. Would you name me forsworn for not being at your side?”
Aylin takes Isobel’s hands and clasps them together between them. She smiles that confident, charming smile that can always pick up Isobel no matter how far she has fallen. “Never. I just…I am shamed that I fell for such loathsome trickery and that my failure cost you so dearly. I beg your forgiveness.”
Isobel is no longer crying now, but the tears still shine upon her cheeks. Her smile broadens. She had worried that their time apart may have have put a wall between them, that she would no longer see the soft, concerned side of Aylin she would only show in private trust to her. But she should have known better, that no distance of time, space, or plane could diffuse their bond. “Aylin, from my perspective, no forgiveness is needed. But if it will ease your heart, know that you have it.” Isobel leans in, her eyes locked on Aylin’s. “That is enough of apologies and worries for now. There will be time enough for those. Now, I want nothing more than you. To find succor, as you said.”
Aylin pulls Isobel into a deep kiss, as passionate as their first but even more loving and tender. For all the beauty of love’s first flowering, most fade and fray at the first heavy wind; a true love’s color only deepens with each storm it weathers. Aylin breaks the kiss but does not pull away. “For a hundred years, I have wanted for nothing but your touch.”
Aylin steps back and waves away the rest of her armor with a flash, leaving her in long worn rags and her gorgeous folded wings. They would have been shades by the firelight were it not for the moon turning her pearlescent. She must indeed feel wanton, as normally she revels in the ceremony of Isobel taking the armor off strap-by-buckle. For her part, Isobel stands and begins undoing her cloak. Aylin rips off the rags the Sharrans had left her with, tossing them into the fire without taking her eyes off her lover. Isobel laughs at the brazenness even as she feels desire build in her, but then her breath catches. Halfway through unclasping her robe, she freezes. She had seen the cracks upon Aylin’s face, but they did not prepare her to see the rest of her. They tangle as thick as shattered glass upon her nude body, spidering-out from her heart and belly, the places the Sharran most loved to stab her as part of their sick ritual. And now it is Aylin’s turn to laugh. She holds up her arms and glances over herself. “These? Pay them no mind. They need no balm save your kiss, no salve save your touch.” She steps forward, her powerful arms reaching for Isobel’s shoulders. She pulls the arms of Isobel’s robe into her grip, the muscles on the backs of her hand tensing. With a single smooth motion, she pulls down the robe, leaving Isobel bare save for her smallclothes. Her skin is plump, light, and full. Her breasts tremble as she feels the cool breeze at her back and the heat of the fire before her. Isobel’s need is as fierce as ever, but seeing her lover’s scars awakens the part of her that needs to take command of another’s care. The gentle, firm hand of the nurse. She advances on Aylin. “Lie down. I am the healer. I must attend to you.”
Aylin laughs loud and hearty. “At your command, My Lady.” She leverages herself down onto the fur rug. She arches her back as she stretches out, every curve and muscle of Aylin’s body is on display, every hair from her hair down to fine hairs of her womanhood. Isobel immediately notices her smallclothes are wet from the need of her own womanhood. “You are so beautiful, Aylin.”
Aylin’s eyes shine in the flickering light. “I am divine, borne of the silver light that breaks the darkness. Beauty is my nature.”
As she lowers herself to all fours, Isobel feels herself falling in love all over again. After a hundred years of torture and ruin on her body and mind, Aylin still can see herself as beautiful. What scars remain, she is unbroken. And as quick with the poetic turns as ever.
Hovering over Aylin, Isobel traces her fingers along her lover’s arms, flanks, hips, thighs. Kisses follow the same trails. She lowers herself so that her body is pressed against Aylin’s and begins caressing the length of her body, trying to touch her everywhere at once.
Isobel wraps her arms around Aylin’s firm thighs and parts her lover’s dripping lips, pausing a moment to savor the scent of desire and sweat. Suddenly, she buries her face into her lover’s mound, licking and sucking, rubbing her jaw and nose against those sensitive, soft folds. One can sip and nibble at pussy tastefully, playfully, but all it can do is whet the appetite; satisfaction only comes from lapping, feasting, devouring. And Isobel wants to satisfy. Her eyes stare up at Aylin’s face, tracing the effects of her ministrations in her lover’s moans and cries. Isobel has always thought of Aylin during sex as the most rare and masterful of instruments, capable of so many beautiful notes with just the right motion of the mouth or tongue. Aylin’s legs go rigid as she stretches into Isobel. She is close. Isobel smiles into her lover’s lips, still lapping greedily. Isobel can usually play a symphony, but Aylin’s need is so great that she can barely finish a movement. She redoubles her tempo to match Aylin’s frantic bucking. And finally, Aylin’s body convulses and she cries out a long clarion note, wetness as silver and clear as moonlight pouring from her into Isobel’s mouth. Isobel delights at the taste, the fragrance alone bring back a flutter of glorious days and romance’s first blooming. She could drink of Aylin for eternity and never grow full. Their pace slows, and finally Isobel lays her head down upon Aylin’s sex. “Aylin, I am so glad to have you back. I missed this. I missed you.”
Aylin places her hand in Isobel’s hair. And begins playing with the strands. “My Darling, were it that I could have a century of this pleasure as justice for every moment we were parted.”
Their peaceful rest is interrupted by a knock at the door. Aylin carefully sets Isobel aside and jumps up, striding to the door and opening it before Isobel can protest. One of the Harpers—a dwarven woman with short hair—stands there, her loose fist held up to knock a door that is no longer closed. Aylin, bare and beautiful, glares. “I have little patience for interruptions. Speak quickly, lest I strike you for your impertinance.
The Harper stares dumbfounded for a moment before finally answering. “I just heard a scream. I…was worried someone had come to try to take Lady Isobel again.” Isobel, for her part, can only cover her bright red face in embarrassment.
Aylin’s glare fades into a laugh that shakes the door. She places a hand on the Harper’s shoulder. “I hearten that you hold to the care of My Darling with such diligence, and my Divine Mother shall hear of your stalwart dedication. But no, there is no danger here. I shall ensure no harm comes to this beauteous woman ever again. You heard lovemaking the likes of which will be sung in ballads across every plane for all eternity. And, by my oath, you shall hear it at least a dozen times more by the time this night is through.” She twists the Harper around so she is facing away. “Now begone, friend. I have a darling to adore.” The Harper shuffles away as Aylin slams the door shut. She turns back to Isobel. “Now, I believe that it was your turn, Darling.”