Admittedly, Szymon was a little worse for the wear, but with good reason — held carefully within his muzzle were the three gyrfalcon eggs that he had managed to secure for Doe. The scratches and pecks that littered his face and shoulders and the jagged set of scrapes on his right foreleg were shallow enough and would heal in due time. He traipsed toward the shoreline, pleased and untroubled, setting the eggs in the sand beside the mud shark he had caught. The venomous spines had already been carefully dispatched, but he couldn’t help boasting of his catch to the little Witch Doctor before gifting it to his brother — it was a prize that would have brought Szymon honor even in Warsaw. For himself and Doe, Szymon managed to catch a snapper and a sculpin — it was, perhaps, pure selfishness that he took the easy way out instead of catching something warm-blooded; but truth be told, he preferred saltwater fish to freshwater, and tracking and hunting something would take too long. He didn’t want to leave his prizes for long — and he didn’t want to wait anymore before summoning Doe.
Calling to her would draw attention that Szymon didn’t want. Thinking quickly, he found a small intertidal pool that would have no outlet until high tide came — and he gently placed the spiny dogfish, the snapper, and the sculpin therein, rolling the eggs with his nose and kicking sand over them. Then he set out looking for her, humming a wordless tune to himself as he slunk through the territory, the tip of his tail twitching habitually and the cant of his head slunk somewhat furtively below the crest of his sharp, angular shoulders. He tried a deeper version of her piping “ka-kayi!” and found the result to be rather flat — his voice was meant for deeper waters and slower crescendos. He kept his steady humming as he poked his head into the den she used as a cache — too small for Szymon, which made him happy in an absurd way. Perhaps it was the fact that he was notably smaller than his brothers.
She'd been watching him, her live-scent hidden in all the old scents she'd laid around the pampas grove. Whenever Szymon came around lately, she would steal quickly away and watch from where he could not see. He'd wanted time to himself, she knew - somehow, she just knew - and Doe was determined to give it to him. But she knew herself well enough, and knew that Szymon could easily be drawn from his path, if she showed up and begged.
So she resisted temptation for them both, never revealing herself but still waiting, just as she'd promised.
And today was the day. Something had told her that almost before he arrived - but when he came near singing, a strange variation of his name-sound rumbling past his lips, Doe knew that it was time. He wanted her to come back, of course she would. Of course.
But it would not be that easy. Oh, no. He'd kept her waiting far too long.
Crouching low, Doe crept silently toward her quarry, who was too distracted looking for her that he would probably not hear her approach. She waited one heartbeat, two, and then sprang, her lithe body almost flying as she crossed the two-bounds-and-a-hop distance to Szymon. Instead of barrelling into him, she jumped over his back, letting her paws and teeth touch him for an instant before springing quickly away.
Darting toward the surf, Doe hid herself in the waves and watched once more, her tail kicking up foam and sand as it flipped excitedly behind her. "Ka-ka'yi," she scolded the pale boy, correcting his atrocious pronunciation. "You kept me waiting."
But her eyes were smiling, and her pride was not so strong to keep her from him forever - even now, she itched to be near him again.
The den smelled interesting — the mixture of herbs and other materials the Witch Doctor kept secret and safe and the overwhelming allure that was simply Doe caught his interest, but he judged that she was not here. Somewhat disappointed, he ferreted around the pampas grove with his nose intently brushing the earth, untangling scents as he went and wholly focused on his task.
So focused, in fact, that she took him completely by surprise.
The rustling of grass was thick in his ears as he rooted more deeply into the grove — he had no inkling of her impish approach, and he found himself quite unaware of anything except the body that flew over his back, paws and teeth touching down for the merest of instants before she sprang quickly away. His body, honed for ambush, dropped and rolled with military precision as his hackles flared to life along his angular spine, ears flattening and jaw tucking to protect his throat in one fluid motion — scarred lips pulled back in a murderous snarl as his auriferous eyes lit with the bloodlust that he did not wish to feel but that had been beaten into him until the reaction was Pavlovian and immutable. It took the space of a few seconds, and then her scent and the shuffle of her paws — she was a bird, he was wholly convinced now — clamped down on him forcibly.
It was not shame he felt at first, but good-natured self-deprecation that he’d gone from zero to sixty so quickly. He flopped over on his side with a gusty rumble of both relief and amusement, turning his head to the Sea and to Doe with sheepish golden eyes — and now he did feel ashamed, for he did not wish her to see him in such a state. His wagging tail beseeched her, as did the renewed gentleness of his expression and the way he crawled forward a few feet on his belly. He whined apology, grinning roguishly at the tart way she corrected his pronunciation — which truly was atrocious — and felt the rush of adrenaline that had swept through him continue to course through his body in riveting waves at her nearness.
Rolling onto his back, exposing his abdomen to her in a physical manifestation of that apologetic whine, he looked up at her. Please forgive me; I’ll do whatever you ask, he thought at her, the voice in his head teasing and playful. What he said, though, was a soft and undulating, “DoooOOOoooe,” that wheedled playfully and hopefully conveyed a similar message.
Doe was not afraid - she knew better than to startle him and stay within biting range, but she had faith in her pallid love. He would never purposefully cause her harm, and sure enough, as soon as he saw her sitting there, his rage was ended. Likewise, her own hurt feeling were forgotten; all was forgiven.
Still, she made a show of stalking forward, the rapid flick of her tail belying the true intent of her threatening approach. By the time she reached him, though, the playful nature of his body language and familiar call erased all traces of her feigned irritation. She leaned down to bury her face where his shoulder met his neck, letting her body flop over on the sand when she was where she wanted to be. I missed you! the sensible voice cried, Doe thumping her tail in emphatic agreement. Yes, very much, she thought.
It was more than physical distance, though that had not been pleasant, either. And the way they had parted left no doubts in her mind - he would come back for her. Still, she could not quite place the longing she'd felt for him - not just wanting him near to her, but in communion. Yes, the disharmony. Before, they'd worked apart but for the same things, with the same agenda, and when he'd walked away something had changed. She'd seen him less, smelled his scent across their borders.
"Don't go away again," she mumbled into his fur, the plea in her voice weakening the strength of her command. She did not mean for him to heed her, anyway. It was not a promise he could make her; duty sometimes called for wandering far and wide. She would not stop him from going out again, but she did not have the words to ask for what she really desired. But then words came to her - old words, words of power.
I will be a shadow at your side; your journey will be my journey, your ambitions, my ambitions, your sorrows, my sorrows. What has passed will fade away, and the forward is uncertain; but I will dwell with you, making your den mine and my family yours. You are bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, now and forever.
Doe let out a huffy sigh, lifting her head to look into the handsome face of her returned love. The scabbing scratches there made her ears flatten in irritation. "Look what you've done to yourself," she said in a mock growl, licking fussily at a shallow tear on his muzzle.
Well and truly, Szymon feared Doe’s ire. Eyeing the irritated flicker of her tail, not unlike the blue-grey and tan creature by the shoals, he slicked his tattered ears back against his head and stretched an entreating paw toward her. He growled pleasurably as she burrowed into the juncture of his shoulder and neck, and before he could think his actions through, he reached for her with both forelegs to cushion her drop into the sand and to pull her more tightly to him. The growl billowing from his throat deepened further, humming so ardently he was sure she could feel it in the marrow of her bones. Parting his jaws — jaws that had readied themselves for battle only moments ago — he gave her the utmost delicacy of his touch, preening her shoulder with its dusky red guard hairs, silver fur, and downy undercoat, tracing his teeth through her fur and following it with wide sweeps of his tongue.
His time away — not only from Doe, but from the territory itself — had given him no further understanding of how to treat the situation. He knew only that she belonged with him — belonged to him? no, no, that was impossible — and he belonged with her. Her command that he not leave again — however close the frailty of her timbre brought it to a plea — was reinforcement of what he already felt. He craned his neck to preen the arch of hers, and very quietly, drawing strength from her nearness, “Okay,” he murmured acquiescence. The moment of fluent clarity surprised him, but he didn’t dare call attention to it lest his body remember its customary tension and lock the words down in his stomach to curdle like spoiled milk.
As Doe huffed out a sigh, drawing away to closely regard Szymon’s face, he remembered the things he had gathered together — furrowing his brow as he glanced toward the horizon, he decided that lingering exactly where he was seemed infinitely preferable for the moment. He chuckled at her fussing, closing his eyes as his tail thumped the ground in obvious contentment.
Oh, awesome song! I only just got to listen to it.
First you sing, and now you speak? You never stop surprising me, Doe thought as she cleaned the blood-caked fur of Szymon's face. Ensconced as she was in his embrace, the doctor was finding it a little difficult to continue her ministrations despite the thrumming sense of comfort she felt. Some creative wiggling freed on of her paws, which she promptly settled over her love's chest in order to better reach the far side of his face. His purring, previously a pleasant rumble beside her, now filled her very being - as familiar and as vital as her own heartbeats, the very breath she drew. It is not so long to wait if this is the outcome of our reunion, the sensible voice said, sounding as though she'd recently imbibbed copious amounts of her mother's julep.
When his face was clean, her grooming once again devolved to senseless mouthing - this time on one of his tall, scarred ears. The little nicks and tears felt strange under her explorative nibbles, and the fearther-soft fur felt wonderful against her tongue. But it doesn't taste so good, she thought, drawing back and licking at one of his oozing cuts to get the taste of earwax out of her mouth.
With a soft sigh of contentment, she laid her head across his neck and dug her claws in where her paw rested on the inky markings of his ribs. You better not be going anywhere, the touch said - though she didn't think he needed to be told twice. He came back for me, after all.
"You were humming earlier," she said to him, recalling the joy she'd felt at his approach.
The little Witch Doctor wriggled in Szymon’s grasp, and just for a moment, the selfishness that was beginning to rear its emerald-eyed head surged to the forefront. His golden eyes, which had gone heavy-lidded with contentment, widened in alarm as a protesting growl rumbled in his throat — just where do you think you’re going? — but as she rearranged herself, draping a paw across his chest, he found himself reassured. The low, thrumming purr in his throat started up again, accompanied by a saucy flick of his twitching tail — but choked off as a startled chuckle burst from his lips. Having his ear mouthed and nibbled was a completely new sensation, and — as he always seemed to learn something new with Doe — today he learned that he was rather ticklish. “Hm,” he mused thoughtfully, flicking his ear as her ministrations returned to the cuts on his face. Fondly he stretched his own paws out, flexing and curling his toes.
It was only when she mentioned his humming that he recalled he had plans of his own — and it caused him to stir briefly. Lifting his muzzle so that his whiskers lightly grazed the curve of her upright ear, he hummed the song for her again: “I’m gonna wear you down; I’m gonna make you see — I’m gonna get to you; you’re gonna give in to me.” He swept his tongue over the fur atop her crown, that baby-soft fuzz that lay between her oversized ears, and switched directions — tracing a leisurely path around her ear and down to the curve of her jaw. He touched her with utmost tenderness, treating her as though she were made of feathers and eggshell. Immensely relaxed, he ventured to speak anew: “Have s-somethin’…” he murmured, feeling only a flicker of tension in his throat. Alone with Doe, her body tucked against his like a limpet to its shell, he felt more relaxed than he’d ever felt in his life. Still, he buried his muzzle against her fur, muzzle parting to taste the salt crystals and the heat of her undercoat, before he continued. “Wanna sh-sh-show you.”
The words moved slowly, floating to his tongue with characteristic clumsiness, but they left him with greater confidence and fluidity than usual. For the gift of expressing his thoughts, he could never repay her — for he knew that it was because of her that he could speak at all.
A shiver chased it way down her spine as his muzzle made its way toward one of her sensetive, satellite-dish ears; and at the thrum of his voice, her eyes flickered shut without her knowledge or permission. The world seemed to slow, and to condense itself into small, simple things. The distant, lethargic sound of the ocean's crashing waves. The warm sand beneath her. The brush of cool, salty wind against her heated cheeks.
And Szymon. Szymon, with his whiskers brushing her ear, his breaths sweet-smelling and sweeter-sounding. Szymon with his body pressed steady against hers - heart to heart, side by side. Szymon with his lashing tail. Szymon with his garrulous eyes. Szymon with salt and sand hanging in his fur, looking at her like it's okay to be Doe. Szymon with his beautiful voice. Szymon speaking soft words into her ear, like she belongs there - like she deserves to feel this way.
Szymon. "Szymon," she said, dizzy in his presence and not yet sure she hadn't heard his thoughts, hadn't heard her own thoughts, because that happens, too.
Blinking her eyes open, she pulled back to better see his face, and she determined at once that he had spoken, had said words to her that he wanted her to hear. And it's stupid but she felt like she'd done something - like maybe she wasn't pretending to be whoever he had her confused with, or maybe she doesn't have to. Maybe she belonged there, and maybe - if she could just keep looking into his eyes, keep hearing his voice - maybe the answers would come.
But they didn't come. Nothing came - she just kept looking at him, and that was all. She looked at him, and nothing changed. She was still happy, still terribly confused, still aching for something she didn't quite understand. And she was still Doe. He was still her Szymon. With him, she could always count on that.
"Show me," she said, though she remained where she was.
Phone post number two!
"Mm?" murmured the golden-eyed Cairn boy, adjusting his hold on the delightful little armful that was his Doe, shifting to capture her attention with a gentle lick to the tip of her nose. Teasingly, he nosed at her flank, the curve of her throat, the flopped over ear, trying to find a spot she might be ticklish. He was woefully, or perhaps blissfully, unaware of the turmoil he could not yet untangle for her -- and the pride of his catch and the eggs he had specifically gathered with her in mind invigorated him. There was something about the delicacy required to fetch and carry the eggs -- something precious about the fragile membranes that he had not broken or sullied -- that he was proud of. A way of escaping his birthright in favor of learning gentleness, however impossible it sometimes seemed.
Despite both their words, the two seemed unable to do anything but lie there and paw at each other. Doe was perfectly fine with this and Sy certainly wasn't complaining, so for the moment, the status quo as happily maintained. However, when Szymon seeked retribution for her tickling, Doe scrambled to her paws and danced away, panting out a teasing ha ha ha. Her eyes were alight with mirth and merry, but she kept her distance for now, still feeling the spark of his nose burning on her flank.
"Show me," she said again, giving her coat a perfunctory preen and making a show of being alert and ready to depart from their makeshift love nest. Her eyes landed speculatively at the Doe-and-Szymon shaped divot in the sand, and several ideas came to her at once, which she quickly filed away for later examination.
As I wrote this, I couldn’t help but think of Szymon going, “LOOK AT THIS BEAUTIFUL MACARONI ART I MADE FOR YOU.” XD
A low chuckle billowed up through Szymon’s throat as Doe danced away, a bird among wolves, and he followed her with a pleasantly drunken gait — but as they neared the beach, his steps gained purpose and he picked up his paws with renewed vigor. Nipping playfully at her shoulder, his fangs clipping on air alone lest he accidentally spill her blood with what was intended to be a loving overture, he moved past her to take the lead, his paws unerringly tracing their way back to the little tide pool. Turning his head with lifted brow, his unwittingly roguish expression eager and unabashed, “Ready?” he thought at her, his twitching tail alive in a series of lashing sweeps that fanned his hips.
Then, with an intense stare, he turned his focus to the pool, ensuring that all of his prizes remained where he’d left them. He brought the snapper and sculpin to her, laying them before her paws; whichever one she didn’t want, he would gladly eat. And nosing delicately in the sand, the granules generously coating the scabbed over bridge of his nose, he scooped the eggs and laid them one at a time before her. His chest swelled with pride, looking at them — he was not such a failure; he was not such a monster if he could safely secure things as fragile as these. Oddly, knowing that he had not broken any of the three gyrfalcon eggs enforced his conviction that he was meant to take care of Doe and offer her the gentleness that lived close and clandestine to the marrow of his bones.
And then it was time for the Big Reveal — the mud shark looked odd without its dorsal fins, but he couldn’t risk any of the bay wolves getting snagged on their venomous spines. He lifted the two and a half foot prize from the tide pool where it lay, the leathery skin cool and strange upon his lips, and he shook it menacingly — just in case she doubted his prowess, or perhaps simply because he was inordinately bigheaded in the face of his recent trophies — before laying it at her feet. He rested his paw on it, though, indicating with an apologetic dip of his narrow skull and a brisk flicker of his twitching tail that this one was not for her. She would understand, he thought — he jutted his muzzle in the direction of the Leviathan’s lair. “S-S-S — ” He faltered, but the sun was still warm — Doe was still with him — and even if he was not touching her, which somehow made speaking more difficult, he reached for her gaze with his own and drew breath, steadying himself. “Sk-Skellig-ge,” he said haltingly, but with more fluency than was his usual wont.
Doe followed after her love, their combined excitement making her paws dance in a rather undignified fashion. She tried to mimmick Szymon's purposeful strides, but Doe was a creature not built for stoicism, and when she felt something, she felt it with her whole mind and body.
So when she saw the things Szymon placed before her - Doe liked things - she couldn't help but turn a quick circle in the sand, tail lashing furiously as she made a show of nosing over each and every offering. When she got to the dogfish - Skellige's, he'd said - she jumped back as if in fear of being bitten, but did not touch the Leviathan's gift. Finally, she crowded toward Szymon, preening his cheek and neck in extravagant praise.
When she felt - several long moments later - that enough attention had been lavished upon her triumphant companion, Doe turned back to further investigate the three eggs. "The scratches?" she guessed, eyes narrowing at his scabby face.
Szymon basked in Doe’s praise and admiration, allowing the pride he felt to billow his chest and elevate the customarily hunched and furtive cant of his lean, spare frame; he stood tall, king of the moment, but royalty was not his calling and after a beat, he stretched out like an inky-ribbed sphinx in the sand. Rumbling his low, humming purr at his Doe’s nearness, he grinned up at the shale-and-sand Witch Doctor with a rueful nod at her query. He snorted, eloquent derision — he had decided after his journey that he did not particularly like gyrfalcons. The scratches on his face were already well scabbed over, and although the ones on his right foreleg would take a little more time to reach that phase of healing, the pain was so inconsequential he forgot they existed most of the time. Invitingly, he dipped his nose and flipped the snapper and sculpin toward her, licking his lips as he urged her with an undulating whine to take her pick. He wondered whether she could use any part of the spurdog — perhaps the teeth were useful for ceremonies; he wasn’t sure — and made up his mind to ask later.
As the ceremony drew near, Szymon found himself worrying more and more about the little wolf; he knew that communing with the Sea was a tasking process, and her tasks thus far had proven arduous on their own. Though he was dedicated to helping her as much as he could, he couldn’t help the covetous fear that the Sea would try to steal Doe back somehow, and perhaps it was this unspoken fear that made him unable to wait for her to start eating before he rose from the sand and resumed a position nearer to her, his forequarters square and sphinx-like but his hindquarters sprawled casually to the side, providing a half-moon loveseat comprised of Szymon himself should she desire to lay beside him — and his eyes, golden and beseeching and steady on the face he had grown to love so quickly and completely, said that he hoped she would.
At his insistence, Doe looked down at the two fish and immediately decided upon the red one. She liked birght colors, and this fish was much more interesting to look at than the sculpin, despite the latter's abundance of frilly fins and intricate markings. She cared little for such things, prefering the bright and gaudy to subtle and delicate.
So she chose the snapper, and was pleasantly surprised to feel slime against her tongue as she held the creature between her paws and attempted to open it. Strange plates - not pleasant - barred her access to the meat within, and Doe went about stripping off its skin before she ate. Slimy or not, she decided that scales were not good for eating. Perhaps dried, and kept for the shimmer....
Once skinned, the fish went down in three enthusiastic snaps - the strange, spiny bones were also unpleasant, but she refrained from pulling a face as she worked one out of her mouth with her tongue, letting it dripple with her spit onto the sand.
I still prefer land food, she decided, not quite pleased with the revelation. Nevertheless, she was pleased with Szymon's offerings, and doubly pleased with Szymon himself. Seeing his inviting pose, she insinuated herself into his personal space and licked a scarred, white cheek with her fishy tongue.
"In my homeland, we would gather the beaks of black birds and throw them at the feet of our chosen lover - and if they chose you back, they would destroy them," she said, conversationally.
"But this will do." She stretched out her neck to scoop up one of the eggs - enjoying, distantly, the warm, grainy sand that came with it - and then craned her head to gently tap the side of the egg to his muzzle, biting down at the same time. Bits of shell, yoke, and partially-formed bird spattered over them both - but mostly on him.
Doe grinned wolflishly at the sight.
Admittedly contrived from
this episode of The Office
LMAO. That is amazing. I haven’t kept up with that show very well!
Szymon tore and swallowed the sculpin’s flesh with ease, having removed its poisonous spines prior to squirreling it away. He watched with fond amusement as his Doe rather uncertainly set about figuring out her own meal, and found her dainty deliberation to be almost unbearably endearing. A low chuckle drawled from his lips as she, with an abundance of saliva, dribbled one of the snapper’s bones from her mouth; he recalled that her natal pack’s traditions were quite different from his, and her unfamiliarity with pelagic fare bespoke of its newness to her. Tucking his wounded foreleg possessively over her dove gray flank with its cream petticoats, he listened with an attentive swivel of tattered ears as she spoke of another ritual from her homeland — it sounded quite odd, but after his foray into the gyrfalcons’ hillock, Szymon understood one hundred percent why bird beaks were chosen. It was a pity, he thought with a snicker, that he couldn’t perform such a ritual while the birds were alive.
He watched with curiosity burning in his auriferous eyes as his Doe stretched out her neck to retrieve one of the eggs, not fully understanding what she was doing until golden and clear liquid spattered over his face along with bits of frail shell. Hm. His mind whirred fruitlessly, producing only a series of question marks that quite possibly reflected in his eyes as he looked at her — and as a mischievous, satisfied, smug little grin spread itself over her muzzle he wrinkled his muzzle into a playful growl. He decided that, if they were improvising their own lovers’ ritual, he ought to share the spoils of their union — it was, after all, only fair — and burrowed his egg-streaked face lovingly and sloppily against hers with that rumbling, undulating growl still humming in his throat: a feral, wordless interpretation of the thwarted man’s, “Why, I oughta…” He drew away, regarding her lovely — if a bit drippy — visage, and decided that there was not nearly enough egg for her to truly…appreciate what he felt.
And, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he reached for the second egg.
She'd begun to clean his face when a mischievous glint came into his eyes. Doe let out a scolding yap and hopped quickly to her paws, intending to put as much distance between herself and Sy as possible. However, her flee was ended prematurely when one of her paws slipped in the sand, and she barreled to a painful but harmless halt.
Doe laid still for a moment, paws in the air and nose pointed toward the pretty white clouds and those nice swirly birds. And then, still dazed but remembering what events had found her lying in the sand, she scrambled upright once more - though, at this point, there was little chance of escape.
Short post so he can catch up
The scolding yap ought to have given Szymon pause, when in fact it did exactly the opposite; he wanted to rile her — wanted to be scored and marked by the touch of her fangs. Her birdlike grace seemed to falter somewhat — a scratch on the record; a glitch in the playback — and she tumbled tip over tail into the sand, then lay without moving on her back. It was only a second — maybe not even that — but Szymon was at her side in an instant, there to help her rise to all fours, his scarred nose sweeping over her with more intimacy than he probably deserved. She seemed all right, but her egg-streaked devotee wasn’t quite satisfied. He preened her shoulder, moving up the curve of her throat and down the curve of her spine.
"I'm okay," she assured him, a bit disappointed that she'd ended the game so soon. In apology, she cleaned the rest of the egg off of his fur, preening until it was snow and ginger wisps once more. She'd always liked eggs, and the gritty sand that'd caked over some of the treat made it all the more palatable. That was one good thing about the beach - the sand here felt and tasted much more pleasant than the red dirt from where she'd been born. There are a lot of nice things about the bay, she thought, but I know which one is my favorite.
And her favorite showed her just as much favor. Szymon took such care with her - brought her food, endured her teasing, made her laugh. Even now, he cleaned the mess from her face, soothed her hurt pride with his gentle touch. She never wanted this to end; never wanted them to change. Though she'd told herself she would honor Skellige if he had other plans for her, she knew now that it was not quite so simple. For Szymon had become essential to her in a way she'd never known before - and though the feelings were unfamiliar, she understood them well enough.
"But you do choose me, right?" she asked softly, drawing away from his grooming to look more fully into his handsome features.
As always, Doe’s ministrations almost immediately sapped the strength from Szymon’s bones; he hummed his pleasure, nibbling at a bit of eggshell that clung stubbornly to her cream-furred cheek, and began to groom her in turn. When she drew away, making him the sole focus of her bright yellow eyes, “Mm,” he murmured, entranced. He nodded a decisive affirmative, leaning forward to trace a meandering trail of nibbles along her jaw, closing his kohl-lined lips around the pert curve of her chin, smoothing his tongue over the vulnerable hollow of her throat. Then it was his turn to draw away, steadied by her nearness and the quiet, accepting expression on her delicate, tapered features. “Al — w-ways, Doe,” he promised her with all the fluency he could muster. “Every,” he edged out, working over the tricky v and r with deliberate caution, “day.”
Doe-kachu, I choose you. Every day, always.
He didn’t have to ask her back; it was clear from the love in her eyes and the egg in their mouths.