the days were long and arduous. blossom withdrew. reverie continued to spiral, even as boone worked himself ragged to uplift her, to make this her home — to make her happy.
over the moons he'd tried so hard to remain strong, warm, poised; he held her while she cried, he soothed her nightmares and kissed the parts of her that she hated the most. he wasn't lestan. he didn't want to be like lestan.
and it tore at him, it did, to ignore the thousands of horrible thoughts that flooded him relentlessly, to push down the gnawing feeling of dread. to face his people with the same crooked grin and casual chatter, to come home to her with nothing to say of himself. communication was important; had he not emphasized this himself?
but he could not tell her.
he could not tell her that every time he woke in the morning and she was not there, he would spend an hour deluding himself and the next trying to temper the flame. he could not tell her the dreams about a faceless lestan returning to claim what was once his. he could not tell her that he feared she wished he was someone else. he could not tell her about the surging, ravenous jealousy; the anger when he saw lust in someone else's eyes, the way a cold, scaly fear rattled him whenever he saw the corners of her mouth turn in a way that meant she was upset.
he could say none of this because if he did, if he lowered the mask, the prophecy would fulfill itself. and it

ate

him

alive.

but on this sleepless night, while the snow trickles into the denmouth and creates a freckled patch in the gravel, boone cannot stop himself. he tries his very best not to wake her as he clutches her in his arms like the most precious jewel on the planet, the most gentle, but strangling security. he kisses her face as he tries to slow the hammer of his heart in his chest. he wipes the tears from her cheek as they fall.
and in the morning, after he has spilled everything from his system in silent agony, he himself would seemingly forget it had happened at all.