Serpent Lake enjarocharse

She wept—lost in this moment, as if grappling with memories that refused to surface. The mind was a mysterious thing—and he could not imagine being unable to unlock anything from within—to recall anything.

'I was a courtesan made for pleasure in a jeweled court. I was washed ashore from a land that no longer breathes. I did not mold the sand, it molded me. I have traveled plain and mountain and desert and canyon. What I want, Akavir, is for those who look at me to know I am not to be crossed.'

She had been fierce—brazen, only within moments of them meeting. She had been undeniable in her exuberance for life. Was this worse than death?

Before he could respond or react a sob broke from her lips—and she was there, against him, his arms instinctively wrapping around her, and it was as if any small sense of self-preservation he should have held for his own sanity was gone in that moment as an ear pressed to the erratic beat of his heart.

Perhaps, that day he and Arric had claimed the creek… when he had thrown the red-eyed man into the waters, it had been him that died, instead. Maybe this was what purgatory or hell was—or maybe Lestan had been right all along.

The curse of the Mayfairs strummed heavily in his veins.

The was woeful—fearful of forgetting what he had said. He brushed a kiss solemnly upon the top of her head, still holding her—as if he could somehow instill a sense of safety within her once more. Her request brooked upon the impossible— how was he to help her hold on to a love she did not understand nor feel?

“Would showing you Riverclan and the valley help you to remember?”

But it was his eyes which held the true question—was remembering, at this point, something she even wanted to pursue?

"Moment's are fleeting, Silve—" He paused, cutting the name from his lips. "Belen."