Duck Lake what have they done to us?

she does not pull, she does not resist. His gaze burns into hers—steady, searing with devotion. unshaken, unmovable. she tried not to believe in things like permanence, tried not to not let herself be seduced by the promise of forever.

and yet his agreement shakes her, settles deep in her heart and sounds like more than a promise. there is comfort in his candor, an unrefutable strength in the statement. yes, he would always be with her.

a promise wrought in iron. the tension of what lingers between them, thick as blood or fog. grief, love, guilt—she has carried them alone for so long. his very being is an offer, a plea to let him help. let him shoulder her burden, as if it was fated.

she exhales sharply when his lips press to her temple, a quiet, stifled thing, caught between hesitation and surrender. he offers himself wholly, without restraint, without condition. he always has. it terrifies her. what had made him so irrevocably sure that he would not regret it?

his words break against her, raw with passion. it bleeds from him in waves—his voice, his touch, the way he holds her as if she is something sacred, something irreplaceable. 

”guðirnir né maðurinn sjálfur geta slitið mig frá þér. Þetta er heit mitt til þín."

her throat tightens. 

She wants to tell him that devotion is a cruel thing. that it shackles and binds, and that nothing is ever truly eternal. she wants to tell him that oaths are just as easily broken as they are made, that the world is an unkind thing, that they had been burned before. 

so why, why did it feel like everything she could ever want? why could she not tell him this, when it had only ever been true?

she cannot bring herself to deny him.

not when his forehead presses to hers, not when his voice—gritted with emotion, with longing—spills with a temptation she should not entertain. 

seven days. a week stolen away from the rest of saatsine, to live and breathe in something untouched by bloodshed. to experience a life with him before she could choose.

she swallows to soothe the storm beneath her ribs. her breath is a whisper, barely there, yet certain in its weight. 

"Þá skulum við fara."

let them go. let it be peace and pure and good, so that she believes it can be as good as he promises. let it be the love that even the gods envied.