Bramblepoint old wounds

endurance is what we are, he said, voice steady as the land beneath them, but it is not what we choose. his words were heavy, the truth of them shaped by the life he had lived, the battles that had etched themselves into his bones. it is what remains... when you have nothing left to hold.

he took a slow step toward her, not intruding but closing the distance between them. the wind stirred the air, but his focus remained on her, sharp as the tip of an arrow.

belonging, he continued, his tone softer now, almost reluctant, is not a promise. it is earned.

his eyes shifted toward the horizon, where the land stretched endlessly before them, barren and beautiful in its quiet, unyielding strength. i cannot vow that this place will never break. nothing lasts forever. but what we build—together—will stand until it no longer can.

he turned back to her, and in his gaze, there was no force. only a steady invitation, a call that was not to the place, but to what could be shared between them.