Hushed Willows [m] Take what you are, make it sacramental

She needed nothing but his eyes on her, filled with love, just like that, forever. Reverie shifted closer to him with a slight wince; she was always a little sore in the aftermath of their couplings, though she would never tell Boone that. She knew he tried to be gentle.

She pressed her face into his neck as he began to speak, closing her eyes to focus on the sound of his voice. The image he painted was one of impermanence, a shifting sea of false starts in a vague and noncommittal reality. It was nothing like her own life before him, but at the same time she felt she could relate. And it made more sense now, his hurt and anger after weeks of watching her flee from him again and again until the day it had almost killed her. Always waiting for those who would not return for him, and she had nearly been nothing more than another person who kept him waiting.

She wanted to tell him that she would never do that to him again, but the words stayed locked behind her lips; no sense in bringing it up again, that terrible morning which still hurt to think about, and besides, she knew that promises only went so far. Lestan had made so many of them, and what had that been worth? Nothing, in the end. So instead she lifted herself and wrapped her arms tightly around him, and laid her cheek against his. I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere.