Work Text:
His hand brushed gently over the vibrant blue gem inlaid in her pendant: a sapphire of admirable size, polished and smoothed to round perfection, catching the dim light of the bedroom, and seeming to swirl. Blerple took the silver chain it hung on between his fingers, focused on the feeling of the ridges of each small loop as they passed in his grasp, a slow and steady rhythm, and let out an involuntary, and soft, hum.
Kimbetheli watched his brows furrow, took in the intensity in his green eyes as he fiddled with her jewelry, as they lay here comfortably in bed, a fire softly crackling in the hearth.
He was deep in thought, that much was clear, and although she had a suspicion as to his preoccupance, she could not say for sure. The only way to know what was on his mind was to simply ask him, but she waited another moment or two instead, tracing the lines of his face with her gaze the way he was tracing the details of her necklace, focused and pensive, before she brushed a hand over his forearm, up to his shoulder, and tugged at his shirt sleeve to get his attention.
“You’re thinking too hard, hm?”
Blerple blinked at her, taken off-guard by her accurate observation, the sudden break in silence, and then shrugged, his gaze set on a spot in the distance, unwilling to acknowledge the question.
He rarely avoided her eyes, except when he was feeling out of sorts, which was clearly the case, and though Kim often found it sweet, how he could get more easily flustered when he was upset, she did not want him running in circles in his head all night. Such a thing was too easy for him to tumble into if he wasn’t careful.
It was better to speak his mind now, to let out any unruly thoughts, so she prodded again, pet his arm gently, and shifted a little closer to him (if that were even possible; they were always snuggled up close, wrapped in each other’s arms, but there was always room to fit herself even more closely against him, and she rarely passed up the opportunity.)
“Come on dear, tell me what’s bothering you,” Kim coaxed gently.
“Ugh,” he sighed, not quite willing to say, but desiring least of all to leave her unsatisfied; he rarely denied her, in any aspect, and had spoken more of his secrets, his doubts, to her than anyone else.
Sooner or later, he could always find the courage to speak his mind to her, to find the right words to express himself. She rarely left him a choice, with her sweet charms.
He took in her beautiful face as she waited quietly for a proper answer, sank into those pretty blue eyes which were filled with expectancy, and, as always, adoration, and frowned a little harder.
“This,” the brunet replied, tapping the pendant around her neck with an index finger, one, two, three times.
He exhaled sharply through his nose at the third, and laid his head back on his pillow in defeat, sending a small puff of air billowing over the sheets.
“That.” He gestured vaguely, as if to elaborate, his arm falling against the bed once more with a slight thud.
Kim could not keep herself from smiling a little at his reply, the dramatics of it all, but felt sympathy nonetheless. She brushed her own hand over the pendant around her neck, something she had donned almost every day since he had gifted it to her years ago when they married, and had cherished ever since.
“I see…” she replied, because she understood quite easily what was on his mind now, what was keeping the frown on his face, the wist in his eyes.
The man in question glanced at his wife, seemingly a little ashamed at the fact that he seemed to be here, again, with these thoughts swimming around in his mind, weighing him down, when he had attempted so many times in the past to lay them to rest, but Kim reached over, carded her fingers through his bangs, cradled his face, and he let out a soft sigh, comforted, encouraged by her touch, as he always was.
“Thinkin’ about her,” Blerple admitted, his voice quite soft, and lacking his usual energy. “Thinking about that day.”
Kimbetheli hummed in acknowledgement. “It’s been a while since you’ve spoken of her,” she pointed out gently.
Her, naturally, referred to none other than her husband’s mother, a woman she had never had the pleasure of meeting, and who, once upon a time, donned this necklace as frequently as the redhead did now.
“I try not to think about her, or my father,” Blerple replied, his lips twisting in a half-pained purse. “But lately I haven’t been able to shake the thoughts.”
“Would you like to talk about it?” Kim offered, leaning her head against his shoulder, inviting him to speak more.
“There’s nothing to say I haven’t already said. We’ve been over it, a lot.”
“Yes, but clearly not enough times,” Kimbetheli countered. “If you were at peace with the subject, you wouldn’t be here making such a face when we’re cuddled up in this comfortable bed.”
Blerple frowned a little harder. “Hey now,” he protested, but he knew she was right. It was just…difficult, thinking about his parents, about his past. He did not enjoy it.
He tried not to dwell on things that had come and gone, and people that had come and gone, but sometimes, all too often really, he found himself unable to resist, unable to stop old memories from surfacing, from digging in deep and refusing to let go. So he was here, discontented and desperately trying (and failing) to drive back thoughts of that fateful day when his world was irrevocably changed.
It all happened so long ago, and he’d seen and done so much since, had grown into a man he hoped he could be proud of (those around him seemed to be, which was a good enough indicator on most days, though sometimes he still felt somewhat inadequate) and led a good, fulfilling life, but there were still days and nights when he felt pulled backwards through time, when the ghost of near-death breathed down his spine, and long-passed visions of horror and cruel fates darkened his eyes.
There were days when he felt seven years old again, scrawny and knock-kneed, and hiding between trees, with the undead encroaching behind him, and his mother’s necklace hanging on his neck.
Thinking about it now made his heart beat just a little faster.
He sighed once more, shook his head; he could not find the words to describe how he felt.
That wasn’t good enough for his wife though; she knew he would find no rest tonight until he spoke his mind. He never did. It never did him good to keep things in, to let them fester, so she would have to get him to speak.
“Come on,” Kimbetheli said, nudging him gently. “Talk to me.”
What was there to say? That he felt like a failure, a coward, even so many years later, for leaving his parents behind, for fleeing as the undead rose from their sepulchers, as if bidden by an unseen hand, to invade their former homes? That he still dreamt of overturning gravestones, the earth trembling with clawing undeath, and days of neverending darkness, the sun snuffed out as simply as the wick of a candle? That Raven Hill, his place of birth, his hometown, still held nothing more than grim memories, and the sting of fear for him?
Blerple would never forget the smell of death and decay filling the air, spreading under some accursed spell, through all corners of Brightwood—now, Duskwood. He would never forget those last few minutes in his childhood home, his father standing stalwart, sword in hand as wretched fists pounded on the other side of the door.
Lord Reginald Ravencroft had been a well-known, and just man. As mayor of Raven Hill, he was immensely popular, and did his best to uphold the law, and ensure the safety and satisfaction of his community. To many he could be imposing, somewhat stern, despite his generosity, his willingness to share his ancestral wealth beyond what many other nobles spared, but to Blerple, he had just been Father.
No; Blerple could not call himself by his nickname, when thinking of his past. He had been Jonathan back then, the only child of Reginald and Emeraude, eventual heir to the small Ravencroft fortune, with a simple, sweet life ahead of him, and years yet to play with friends, to sit at his mother’s side and read books, to join his father on hunts in the woods.
But after that day he would never do any of those things again, would never have the opportunity to. He would never become the upright nobleman his birthright demanded of him, and would never, ever, see his parents again.
He remembered them in stronger detail than he should; His father’s salt and pepper hair, his warm brown eyes and strong profile. His beard was always perfectly groomed, his eyes would crinkle when he laughed, and he dressed in fine leathers and cotton, though never garishly, never seeking to draw attention to himself. He was a man of honor, of logic, and intelligence. He remembered his mother even more: the way her dark hair fell in waves when let down, but how she preferred elegant up-dos, silk dresses, and carried herself with an air of grace. He remembered the beauty mark framing her green, knowing eyes, her sharp cheekbones, and the way the corners of her lips curved when she smiled.
He remembered the ribbing way they spoke to each other in private, the sharp tongues they shared and the struggles they faced within love. They were both headstrong in their own ways, and powerful, and full of pride. They could argue, yes, had their fair share of fights, and periods of discontentment, when one or the other seemed to know best, and neither relinquished to the other. He remembered more than once an instance of the silent treatment, or indignant glances. But they always came together in the end, always forgave each other. They always overcame adversity.
They could not overcome it that day.
The sound of terror, of carnage, was palpable, even through the thick oak door to the study, ringing through the town streets and into the nearby forest. Adrenaline was high, their pulses ringing in their ears like drumbeats, and Jonathan was frozen with dread, pressed against his mother’s heaving chest. He could feel her trembling against him, but standing firm, tensed, prepared for the inevitable.
His father, stood before them, was covered in blood, his fine garments stained with rotting ichor and fresh crimson. He breathed heavy, exhaustion settling in his bones, even as he stood with sword drawn, prepared to face another bought of onslaught.
The servants hadn’t made it up here, to this last bastion in their home, the doormen either. The Lord and Lady and their young son were all who remained of the household, to their knowledge, and circumstances were dire.
Despite Reginald’s attempts to beat back the tides of undead, room by room the living had been driven back in the manor, more lives claimed with each passing doorway, and eventually, panic broke the ranks; people began to flee for themselves.
The town militia outside did its best to restore order, fought valiantly against the invasion of undead, attempted to save their community, but Raven Hill was known for its massive cemetery; there were many more reinforcements for the enemy, and, slowly, overwhelmed, the opposition began to join them.
There was more banging on the door.
Jonathan flinched, his wide eyes passing between his parents. He was not sure he was fully comprehending what had happened. A short time ago he had been sitting on the steps of his home, dismantling and reassembling a toy horse, enraptured in the task, delighting in the mystery of the interlocking pieces; he’d always been a curious child. Suddenly, the air was filled with screaming and shouting, and he was being swept inside by one of the servants as a scuffle broke out in the distance, his playthings forgotten on the third step, never to be seen again, his servants never to be seen again. His father had called to him with urgency, and his mother had grasped his hand so tightly he thought his fingers might break, as they narrowly avoided an untimely demise.
He may have been young, but he wasn’t an idiot. Watching the sweat drip down his father’s brow here in the study, the grim grit of his teeth, feeling the way his mother’s grasp on him tightened as the beating on the heavy oak door continued, knowing the halls beyond were stained with blood, he began to understand that death was more than a mere concept. It was something more palpable than in old stories or history books or quippy sayings, and that its reach extended far beyond the sick and elderly, and that on the other side of this door, the door to the study his father had spent hours in, reading, writing on parchment, allowing his son to sit by his side, to explore the rows and rows of books lining the walls, death was waiting. It was waiting for them.
His mother’s sudden sullen tone, the way she spoke his father’s name between the pounding on the door all but confirmed his suspicion.
“Reginald…”
“Quiet,” his father snapped, sword still at the ready, and unmoving like a tin soldier. He seemed strong, steady, but surely, he was filled with fear. He let out a harsh breath as the groans of the undead reverberated through the walls. “Let me think.”
“Reginald.”
The banging on the door grew more intense, more crazed, and a surge of fear bubbled up in Jonathan, that he was sure was echoed in his parents’ hearts.
“Father?” he asked, voice wavering, when the man did not reply. His mother smoothed a hand over his bangs, cupped his cheek to calm him. His fist tightened in the silk of her skirt; it too was filthy with splatterings of blood.
Reginald growled in frustration ahead of them, his heart beating fast, his sharp mind racing, attempting to make sense of incalculable odds. “There must be something to do, some way to stop this. I—I just need more time to think…”
Emeraude exhaled sharply, as if the breath had been knocked out of her, frustrated, and full of despair, at the futility of this last argument between them. The acceptance in her voice was clear. “Darling…”
“No,” Reginald insisted.
He did not want to listen to what she was about to say, to the truth she was submitting to. She had been right about far too many things in the past, won too many arguments over the years, to his disdain, and this was one he refused to lose. He couldn’t lose. He could not submit, could not allow his family to be wiped out by such horrific means, could not lose those most important to him, not now. He’d watched today as his community, as his township was laid to waste, as all they had built and enjoyed came to ruin. He would not watch the same befall his wife and child.
There was another horrific bang; the door began to creak and groan ominously, as if a sliver of wood had been hacked off the other side, and more were sure to follow.
Of course. With the living overcome, the militia outside defeated, there were plenty of weapons lying around Raven Hill for the dead to gather and make use of, as if their rotten claws and gnashing teeth were not formidable enough. They bolstered their ranks and now equipped them to hunt and dispatch any remaining survivors in town and in this grand estate, survivors like them, huddling in locked rooms and staving off the inevitable.
Time was running out, Reginald began to realize, but he did not want to accept it.
“No!” he repeated, broken from his stalwart stance, driven to action, driven to panic.
His eyes frantically searched the room, for some sort of tool, or some sort of exit: anything that could help him defend his family, drive back the claws of death so determined to snatch them away, as they had his community, his neighbors, his friends.
He crossed the room this way and that, his blood-stained cloak billowing behind him, searching for something, anything, before he stopped short in front of the windows. They were small, too small for him, or his wife to slip through, were meant only for allowing in glimpses of sunlight, and the study was on the second floor, but…
Emeraude watched him with resignation in her eyes as he placed a palm against the cool window panes, slowly drifting down to pull open the latch. Their gazes met, and then both settled on their young son, with such intensity, such emotion that one as young as him had no context for, no words for yet.
Soundlessly, they came to the same conclusion.
Jonathan did not know what to expect next. He stood, frightened and confused, feeling cold and clammy as his father took swift steps towards him, and pulled his dagger, still sheathed, from his belt. The boy’s mouth seemed to be entirely dry, like it was filled with sand, and he could do nothing but stare wide-eyed and dumbfounded as his father pressed the weapon into his hands.
“Hold on to this,” Reginald said, speaking quickly. “Hold on to that, do you hear me? It was mine, and my father’s before me. Now, it’s yours. It’s a good, sharp blade; it will keep you safe.”
“I—“
“We haven’t much time,” his father emphasized, and the severity in his brown eyes spoke the truth of his words. The oak door was strong, but would not last forever. It was only a matter of time before the chipping on the other side would give way, and their last line of defense would come crashing down. “So you hold on to that, and be a good boy, will you?”
Tears began to well up in the boy’s eyes. Reality, understanding, was quickly setting in. His father was saying goodbye. He was saying goodbye, as if he never intended to see him again, as if he never could, as if they would be parted forever from this moment on. Such a thought was unfathomable; he assumed his father would always be there for him, that they would always be together, or at least have years upon years of time together, to laugh and learn and enjoy, but the dreaded goodbye was happening, here and now, and suddenly the thought of loneliness, of loss, seemed more daunting than whatever horror awaited them on the other side of that door.
Jonathan breathed raggedly, panic bubbling up in his chest.
“Father—I-I’m scared!”
“Look at me, dear,” his mother said at his side, as calmly as she could manage, as simply as if he had scraped his knee and was crying about it.
But when he looked up at her, took in her disheveled hair, the pale flush of her skin, he could sense the same fear in her, the same desperation that was slowly overtaking him. She attempted to quell it, licked her dry lips and continued speaking, petting his hair as she had done so many times tucking him into bed at night, trying to be brave, for his sake.
“You have nothing to fear. Now, be a good little man. You’re going to crawl out that window, alright? The bushes will break your fall, it’s no bigger drop than the tree in the garden. You’ve climbed, and fallen off of that one enough times to know. You crawl right out now, and run far, far away,” she ordered.
“Run north, to Stormwind. You remember how to get there, don’t you? We’ve taken so many trips there,” Reginald added, his large hand braced on his son’s shoulder. “Across the river and past the farms.”
“I…I think so…” Jonathan sniffled, trying to commit their directions to memory.
His parents managed bittersweet smiles for a split second.
“You get to Stormwind and tell them we need help here. They’ll send a big army to rescue us, you’ll see. Everything will be alright,” his father assured him, but he wasn’t entirely convinced.
The door to the study groaned menacingly, and the cacophony of undead increased on the other side.
“Here,” Emeraude said quickly, pulling her necklace off with trembling hands and clasping it around Jonathan’s neck. “A piece of me to keep with you.”
“B-but—”
Before he could speak any more, before he had time to understand that there would be no more time with his mother, no more laughter or kisses, no more of her witty reprimands, he was being swept up in his parents’ arms, in a crushing hug. His mother was pressing kisses to his cheeks, and his father pressing their foreheads together before he could properly blink.
It was all happening so quickly; what could he do? Everything was so intense, so confusing and terrifying and overwhelming for a child. He could barely focus on the feeling of his parents’ touch, the smell of his mother’s expensive perfume still shining over the blood smeared on his father’s garments, the tickle of his father’s beard on his skin or the familiar pressure of his mother’s hugs. He could not even think to respond as they told him they loved him, deeply, and encouraged him, hastened him, as they held him for the last time.
The next thing he knew he was being carried to the window, clutching his new dagger tightly just as a frightful CRASH resounded behind them, and the first of the shambling corpses rushed forward into the study.
The Lord and Lady pushed him out the window with mere seconds to spare, and he fell into the brush, and that was that.
Blerple brushed a hand over his face, covered his eyes and let out a sharp exhale, as he recounted it all in his mind. He glanced at the ornate dagger on his bedside table, his father’s, which he had carried ever since.
“Fuck…” he sighed, fighting back the panic crawling up his skin.
The hours that followed, the trudging journey to Stormwind had become a blur in his mind over time, reduced to nothing but a feeling of dazed despair, a lingering sense of shame that haunted him thereafter. When he reached the city, news had already travelled about what happened in Raven Hill, and though defenses had been shored up throughout the rest of Southern Elwynn, it was too late for his home.
He knew that his parents were lost. And, so was he. He had distant family, of course, that he could have gone to, could have been taken back into the fold of nobility and tried to carry on as he had before it all, could have grown up to be a lord and hunted game and explored the world through books from the safety of a plush home, but could never bring himself to. He could not reconcile with that part of himself, with his identity. It had died alongside his parents.
Was it smart, to rough it out on the streets instead, to learn thievery and trickery by trade, to go hungry some nights and cold others, and eventually make an (un)honest living? Most likely not. But he…could not go back. It had hurt too much. It still did, really, and although he was more comfortable sharing his true name these days, it still felt foreign in his mouth, still felt like a privilege he didn’t deserve.
He frequently told himself there could have been something done differently, some sort of way for it to all work out and for his parents to survive, for them to escape together, but deep down he knew the truth. There had been no other way that day. He had to escape without them, and he knew he would never see them again. If he had stayed in that study with his parents, if they hadn’t pushed him out that window, he would have died alongside them.
He wasn’t ungrateful. He knew their sacrifice was for the sake of him, so that he may go on to grow and thrive, and he was thankful for those that had come to know him as he grew, for the life he began to build amongst friends, and the purpose he had found in The Brotherhood of the Stag, and the brilliant, stalwart paladin Varbath Lightshammer, who he longafter considered a father in his own right. But often, too often he thought, the reality of his nearly-missed death weighed on him.
There was a time when he wished he had died with his parents, when he was so filled with shame and grief, when he felt personally responsible for the loss of his family, of his community, that he felt he could not go on. He felt cowardly, sometimes, rejecting his family name all those years ago, adopting a silly gnomish nickname from his first witty, kind tutor in the wide world instead, but how could he bear a proud, longstanding name when he could not live up to its legacy, when he could not even protect those who bore the same name as him? Such a thought was silly, he knew; he was a child back then, with no strength, no power to save anyone, but that did not stop him from feeling the weight of such a loss, such a failure. It did not stop him from feeling regret.
He’d visited home only once in the years since; a mission called for it, and he and Kimbetheli had ventured out. He could not have gone without her. It was brutal, overwhelming, and although in the years after his visit, Raven Hill had been slowly reclaimed, and was filled with life again, walking the rotting stairs of his former home (it had been left to disrepair, as most of the buildings had) a decade ago, seeing the remnants of carnage, their rooms and their fine things pilfered and ruined, from threats both living and undead, gave him no peace of mind. If it weren’t for Kimbetheli, standing there, holding his hand firmly, leading him on, he was sure he would have been fixed to the spot, forever, trapped in a haze of grief, of self-imposed torment.
Seeing it all that day hadn’t given him closure. It didn’t lay any ghosts to rest, didn’t make him feel any better. He wasn’t sure he could feel better. Not about this.
Why was it so difficult to move on? Why did he keep coming back to that day in his mind? He’d been met with misfortune since, lost good friends and good people, seen horrors and partaken in some. He’d faced fear and heartbreak and shame, in more ways than one, had overcome so much adversity, so much strife, so why was he lying here, two and a half decades later, still haunted? Why couldn’t he let it go?
“I don’t know,” he thought out loud, frustrated with himself. “I don’t know.”
“Hey,” Kimbetheli said softly, grasping his hand. She rubbed circles into his palm, kissed his shoulder, determined to soothe his racing thoughts, to break him out of the cycle of doom.
She’d seen him like this enough to know how he was feeling, how bad things could really get left unchecked. She understood how frustrating it could be, feeling trapped in one’s own mind, in terrible memories; there was a time where she too felt nothing but despair, exhaustion. There were times when she couldn’t sleep, for fear of dark visions, and nightmares, and relied on those around her to free her, to remind her of the good days, of the love and light in the world. In turn, she always did her best to save her loved ones from that sinking pit of darkness that was all too easy for them, for anyone, to fall into. She would do her best to save him from it now.
“That’s alright. That’s alright, okay? Sometimes it’s difficult to sort things out. Sometimes these feelings just bubble up,” she assured him, when his breathing turned a little strained. “Just let them simmer a little, and then drift away. You’ll get past them.”
He turned into her touch, wrapped an arm around her, so they were pressed close together. Blerple shut his eyes tight, brows knit in frustration, and tried to sink into the feeling of her body against him, the familiarity of her touch, her warmth, her scent. It was the greatest comfort in the world to him, and sooner or later, always succeeded in making him feel alright again, making him feel whole.
He hoped it would do so now as well, and quickly, but his faith in that aspect was rarely unrewarded. She had always lit up his world since they met, quelled a bit of the storm swirling inside him, and that never seemed to change, even after all this time. He was thankful for that.
But still, the subject at hand, the fleeting memories of those last few moments with his parents did not seem to leave his thoughts tonight, and that was aggravating, in the extreme. He could still feel a prickle of discomfort sweeping up his spine.
“I should be over it. I was seven. Been so many damn years now, and it still bothers me, and I don’t fucking know why,” the brunet said, shaking his head in disappointment, in disdain for himself.
Kim hummed, trying to find a good answer for that. It was a difficult thing, trying to find a specific reason, or a specific solution, for something like this. Matters of the heart were vexing, even for someone like her, who wore hers on her sleeve, and that was just the way things were.
There were some things you couldn’t change, no matter how hard you tried, and some events, some memories, were burned into your soul. She had learned that several times over.
“Sometimes we just…never get over something. No matter how hard we try, it sticks with us,” she sighed, wishing it weren’t so.
He made a protesting, dismissive sound.
Kimbetheli smiled at his petulance; he did not always like to hear the truth, even from her. She didn’t need to see his face to know he was frowning.
“You disagree?” she prodded, knowing he did not.
“No,” he sighed, drawing back a little to regard her better, to take in the blue of her eyes, the way her red hair fell around her face in gentle waves. A few moments of looking at her, and his heart seemed to settle a little, as it usually did. Despite his troubles, a sense of warmth spread in his chest. “I know you’re right. It’s just…hard,” Blerple admitted, his green eyes full of uncertainty.
“It is,” his wife agreed, meeting his gaze. She was glad to see his pretty eyes again, that he felt he could face her instead of hiding away, and thus, she couldn’t hide the affection in her tone even if she tried.
She loved him, and loved that he trusted her, that he confided in her, as she confided in him. It was a blessing to understand each other so well, to be so comfortable with each other. She’d never take that, take him, for granted.
“You don’t have to deal with it alone. I’m right here, with you. I’m carrying it all with you. That’s why you gave me this, isn’t it?” she asked, placing a hand over her pendant, his mother’s pendant.
“To keep safe. To keep it all in mind, in memory.”
He couldn’t deny that. He’d said similar words when he gave it to her, to wear on their wedding day. Somehow it had been an easy decision; despite all the pain surrounding his past, the necklace was, well, a symbol of love. It was a part of him, a part of the lasting memory of his mother’s love, of his love, and it felt natural to share that with Kim, felt natural to share that with a person who made his days worth living, who he could share all he had, all he was with.
“You’ve got my heart,” he confirmed, and the reminder of it made him feel warm. He managed a huff of amusement, though he could not keep from self-deprecating. “And all the trouble that comes with it.”
But it earned him a smile from her, a soft, sweet one, so he couldn’t feel so bad about himself anymore.
“I love your trouble,” she said, playing with the string of his linen shirt fondly. “It matches mine.”
Now it was his turn to smile. How did she always manage that? How did she get him to feel so at ease, so much lighter, when he felt the weight of the world crashing down on him? It was uncanny. Her words were true enough; she’d gotten them into plenty of trouble over the years, dragged them into impossible situations or faced incredible odds, just as he had, but he could never bring himself to mind.
He would endure any trouble for her, would go to any lengths to stay at her side. The scar marring his face was proof of that. She was as chaotic as she was calm, brought a sense of balance to all things in his life that had been sorely missing since that day long ago as a child, and he had come to rely on it, more than anything else in the world.
Light, he loved her.
He would be remiss not to tell her so, for the thousandth time.
“I love you,” he replied, gazing at her with deeply fond eyes.
Mischief flashed on her visage, and her smile spread further, as she twirled the string of his shirt around a finger smugly. “I know,” she said simply.
Blerple scoffed at the lack of reciprocity, brows knit in dismay. Not even an ‘I love you’ back? How rude. “You are the worst,” he complained.
“I know,” Kimbetheli repeated, laughing softly, and feeling a surge of delight as he pulled her hand into his own, rubbed her palm with familiar, slightly calloused fingers.
“It’s a good thing I can’t live without you,” he sighed, squeezing her hand, relishing in the privilege of lying here, in their comfortable bed, with dark, distant memories held at bay once more for the moment, and her at his side.
His sweet words made her heart swell, and as she had so many times before, she found herself saying “Lucky, lucky me,” leaning up to kiss him, and washing away the last of his unpleasant thoughts with the meeting of their lips as smoothly as the polished gem of her, of their pendant, hanging from her neck.