Qeya River [m] ghosts

i believe it.

it would be easy for him to lie—he had done it before. and yet... he did not lie now. red eyes that meet periwinkle say this easily, lacking the mirth he usually wears on a black crown. perhaps he is biased, compelled by his affection for her.

it's hard to say. but now, as he strides closer, he lets his eyes rise to the twilight blanket above. a tufted chin tilting upwards, seeking out the stars, intertwined with the rising sun that melts the black ice into rivers of orange and red.

but it isn't long before his eyes drop to her once more. seeing her, earnestly, for what she is. who she is. and not just the beautiful face and fine breeding he sought from her before. she draws a chuckle not poisoned with mockery but of gentility from the man. our faiths are what tie us to who we are. his head tilts as he examines the expression toying on her sincere face. i would hope to go to valhalla one day.

a rawness given to only her. but not anytime soon. so to know that the stars will be there to receive me when i draw my final breath on this earth, his eyes blink closed in an affectionate delivery, well... i can't think of any better way.