Cassandra
Florence
A trip to Florence is only a little over an hour away from Rome.
The high-speed train is full of passengers, pummeling towards Tuscany. Guards bar the exits with sharp expressions. Every so often, their eyes wander to my companion with knowing suspicion. Humans are enlightened of other species that disguise themselves among the masses. It is for that reason that the world has become much more cautious. More officers, tighter security, unwarranted judgment has become a new reality since the leaks of vampires started.
Elijah is and always has been noticeably inhuman. Even wearing contemporary clothing of this time, his features have an etched sharpness, a carved beauty that humans today have evolved from. His hair, thick with waves and sparsely braided like some timeless Viking warrior draws the eyes, but its Elijah's eyes that hold onto the soul. If he grants you them, those emerald depths trap you to him, prying out your secrets. Any human is helpless to those eyes. The guards at the doors don't stand a chance, and they know it. It's why they refuse to goad him.
Elijah's gaze occasionally finds interest in the passing world outside the windows while my attention remains solely on him.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask.
"Damien and Paris," he replies softly. "I worry of leaving them."
"They told you to go. They wanted you to."
"I know." He extends his fingers while I stretch them, hoping to provide some comfort in this uncertain time. He looks down at our hands together. "I worry about what will become of them... if we should fail."
I know my current faith is stronger than his. He is in the dark, being tested by Jehovah for a position beyond his natural comprehension. I am striving to keep faith, despite feeling so disheartened. Since China, it has been difficult. Functioning has been difficult.
It's a rare day when Elijah willingly lets me into his past. There was no passing up this experience, despite how badly I wanted to remain in bed. I find that now I'm lying against him in our seats, frozen to the bone, I'm actually glad he roused me from my depressive state. Despite the looks of distain from the other passengers, I'm appreciative of our time alone.
"We have to trust we won't," I whisper finally.
He nods but the worry creasing his features doesn't leave him with the acknowledgement. Damien and Paris were eager for time alone, despite the dangers. Erika gave him leave to go, which was hilarious to witness. Now that we're on the road, I'm not surprised his mind lingers on what could go wrong.
Once the train has slowed and we're free of the confining train car and its nosy riders, he's relaxed quite a bit. It isn't until we realize there is even more security on the ground than in travel, more security than there was in the very large city of Rome here in Florence, that his guard comes back up. Guarding me at his side, he guides me from the platform with an assured stride.
He knows this land. He knows where he's from, no matter how long he's been away.
It's written on his face. All of the memories have come rushing to him like a tidal wave. Noticing me studying him, his lips turn up and he sweeps his arm around my shoulder, molding me to his body. His lips linger against my hair as we walk into the sun.
"So, where are you taking me first?" I ask eagerly.
"We're already here. Santa Croce."
Being a weekday in the middle of an Italian winter, the crowds exiting the metro disperse in every which direction for their destinations, giving us the space to walk freely down the streets with full-view of the overwhelming renaissance architecture this city is built on. It's mid-day and despite the rainfall we witnessed from the train car, the sun is out in full force, shining down on the piazza.
It dawns on me as we walk in silence, observing our surroundings, that Elijah has a wealth of memories regarding these streets, streets he once would have walked as a child, as a teen, as a young man. It dawns on me that while these streets are beautiful, and rich with history, there was once a point many centuries ago where bodies littered this cobblestone.
Plague swept through Florence, taking the lives of everyone Elijah ever held dear.
His own life was on the brink, spared only by a mysterious woman that told him of a distant purpose he was meant to live for. Little did he know then that it would take seven-hundred-years for her prophecy, given by the vague god of light, to come to fruition.
He is at the height of his purpose, existing in the danger.
"It's been quite some time since I was here," Elijah admits, openly distracted. "It's much changed."
"How long has it been?"
"At least two centuries." He frowns, though not completely displeased. "Some things are the same."
He points out various locations, detailing this area name as Uffizi, a portion of Florence that is still abundantly medieval in appearance. Elijah knows every church, every marketplace, even shops that have withstood the test of time. The buildings are ancient. Truly ancient, many of them as old as him. Some even older. Basilica Santa Croce is one of them. Elijah explains that he was just a boy when they began reconstructing the previous building with this one, and that his father helped in it's erecting.
"The tombs of Galileo and Michelangelo... Machiavelli... are buried on these grounds," he tells me, a far better tour guide than anyone else in the city. He also provides small tidbits of his own experiences, such as where he and his friends would race through the narrow alleyways to avoid attending mass to pointing out the buildings where people he knew once thrived, recalling their names with effortless admiration.
The heightened security doesn't escape our notice at every corner turned, but rather than approach Elijah, risking his wrath, the officers lower their heads and avoid his gaze at all costs. That's usually the reactions he garners in public... that and astounding awe. Walking amongst mere mortals, there is no one to refute his beauty, no competition.
His eyes, his anciently-styled locks, the sharp bone-structure given to him by his clearly beautiful parents, and a body to revival even Hercules makes him impossible to ignore. I'm sure my appearance also draws some of the eyes as well, since neither of us appear as approachable as the normal person.
The more he reveals, the deeper my appreciation grows. He isn't always so willing to breach his past, open his mind to those memories. I can't help but be grateful as he leads me by hand through his previous life in efforts to distract me from the heartbreak's we've seen in the past week alone.
The marketplace draws more crowds, which we weave through carefully, eyeful of the impulsive humans. Elijah somehow knew this one would have less tourists and more locals, who recognize him as a fellow Franciscan, greeting us with surprising warmth. There is color everywhere, in the handmade scarves, in the wood-carved mirrors, the hand-painted canvases. The raw scent of leather roams the stalls, definitely the most prominent item sold in Florence. We rarely stop, not needing material items.
It isn't until Elijah's left my side to order me a famous porchetta sandwich that something catches my eye in one of the stalls. The fragile-boned man sitting behind the counter smiles as I approach, sensing a sale due to the fact that I'm transfixed by the piece of jewelry under the protection of glass.
My belly tussles nervously at the sight of it, and yet, I find myself fumbling through his language to ask how much it would cost while making sure Elijah is nowhere near to see the exchange. The expensive purchase is made quickly, the item tucked into my coat long before he returns, holding a sandwich which I'm sure to savor.
An impulsive buy to be sure.
"Your sandwich, milady."
My nerves betray me as I take the wrapped sandwich from my observant companion. Both of our eyes zone in on the way my hand shakes neurotically with a mind of its own.
"You alright?" he asks, showing concern.
I chuckle, passing off the unease with a nonchalant shrug. "Must be hunger or something."
Ever the doctor, he guides me to the nearest seat, insisting I eat before we continue. Garlic and roasted pork whiff from the foiling as I unravel the meal, glancing up to find the stand owner watching us with curiosity. Perhaps he's wondering why I've suddenly gone pale or maybe he's intrigued by how Elijah watches over me, not eating himself.
What possessed me to buy such an item is beyond me. In fact, it's shocking.
***
It's easy to tell when we've arrived at a place of impression.
Elijah's gone considerably quiet, eyes locked on a particular building, with an entrance overtaken by thick vines. The sun is setting, our day of roaming behind us. I'd be exhausted if I weren't so desperate to know more. All day, he has divulged secrets and memories to me while exploring the streets and shops, the gardens and piazzas.
This is the first time I see a location hurt him. And instantly, I know these grounds are special. This must be his home. The home he shared with his family. My fingers remain locked in his as we start up the steps hesitantly, entering what is now a museum of historic religious antiques. Our boots creak against the old wood flooring, a bell sounding upon our entry. On the door is a sign detailing a new security system, and the security guard posted in a seat by the door is no doubt meant to ward off intruders. It's almost unbelievable how easily the world has adapted to the threats that were presented to them when the sky went black, when vampires began to pick people off one-by-one and looters and criminals ruled the streets. The few tourists shuffling through the narrow halls are wholly interested in the glass-cased artifacts but our presence—Elijah's towering build—distracts them. The store owner with wary eyes mumbles a greeting our way, asking if we need anything. Elijah is too involved in his surroundings to oblige him with an answer.
Elijah stops, eyes locked on a fireplace that's been bricked over.
"Elijah?"
"Everything else is changed," he whispers. "But this I remember." He places his hand on one of the blocks of stone. "This is the same."
A couple tries to get around me in the small space, disrupting my awe.
"My father and I made this when I was a boy," he says. "He let me do most of the work. I insisted." He laughs. "Which is why it's so poor-looking."
"Looks good to me."
"I didn't chisel well enough, so all of the stones are uneven. He didn't mind. Said it showed character... said one day, it would make a fit story... to tell to my children."
He hums softly as his hand falls from the ancient proof of a life long ago lived, and although his back is to me, I can sense the guilt, the remorse that comes from the part of him that believes he should have died in his own time. How long he's lived with that misplaced pain.
The store owner boldly appears beside me, obviously curious to see our interest on his museum rather than the trinkets locked away on the tables. "That is an original fireplace," he divulges in a thick accent, admitting what we already know.
"Circa 14th century, I believe," Elijah says, without turning.
"You have a good eye, sir... Unfortunately, I bought this place with the hearth already bricked in. I suspect it was to preserve the building from caving. I've been told much of the original foundations remain. The layout is the same. I have a spreadsheet that was luckily recovered, although the dates have not been settled upon as of yet. The ink is greatly faded."
"Do you have it here?" I probe, way too excited when he nods, encouraging me to follow him to the other side of the store.
"There were obviously great plans for this residence, but they weren't fulfilled," the man says, slipping his hands into gloves before opening the case, producing a roll of parchment paper worn with time. He unravels the stained paper, careful of the flimsy corners. "Our records have gone as far as the 15th century regarding residents, but I believe this is from a great deal earlier than that even."
I lean over the treasure, my heart clenching at the legible name penned at the top left corner of the page. De Ricci. Stunned, I beckon Elijah over, sputtering tellingly. "Elijah... you must... you need... come here."
My companion stops at the edge of the table, gazing down at the artifact while I gaze at him, failing miserably to keep my excitement at bay. Elijah doesn't say a word for quite some time, staring at his father's handwriting.
I figure I'll ask the questions. "When did you find this?"
"A box was found when construction crews came through a few years ago to repair some of the sinking foundation. Most of the items were sold off quickly, for a rather high price, but I managed to hold onto a few. Couldn't part with them." He studies us closely. "Are you collectors of antiques then?"
I smile softly, slipping my hand into Elijah's discreetly. "Sometimes."
This is undoubtedly more than he expected to encounter on his trip here.
"What else did you find?" Elijah suddenly croaks, regaining his voice.
"Much of it was trinkets. Pins and needles, plates, household items. The real treasures I have in here." He turns, gesturing to a glass cabinet. "An unfinished wooden cross, most likely hand-carved by whoever was the owner at the time. The carving is incomplete. See?"
Elijah is unnervingly still beside me.
"Even better was a woman's shawl, incredibly well-preserved. It's made with lace, which had to be an extremely rare commodity for the times."
Elijah doesn't even ask to see it. "How much?"
"For what? The shawl?"
"All of it. Everything that was found in the box."
"These are my pride and joy's, sir."
"For the right price, I'm sure you could part with them."
"Sir—"
Elijah places his hands on the glass and with one terrifying look, the man goes silent, all words disappearing mid-speech. "Name your price."
***
The sun is gone. The day passed in an exciting blur.
This is the first time I've actually sat to think, had a moment alone. Elijah is across the square on the phone, no doubt with either Paris or Damien to check-in on them. After a heated bartering of the man's most prized items and artifacts of Elijah's earliest memories, Elijah triumphed, his determination too willful to be refused. The items are already on their way to Rome.
Chillier now that the sun as disappeared, leaving a glorious painted sky in its wake, the streets have emptied considerably, apart from the Piazza di Santa Croce, which is about to hold an orchestral concert for a few dozen people. The air carries whiffs of roasted nuts and cinnamon, hints of burnt firewood and herbs. I glance up at the sky, realizing how little I felt ominous presence with us today. Usually, the watchful eyes burn holes into my back, seizing hold of my mind. The absence today is a welcome one, making it easy to immerse myself into Elijah's world, to forget the horrors we've endured.
I stand, leaving the statue of Dante, crossing the square to lean against the railing of the fountain, listening to the steady flow of water, letting it calm my senses. The violins tune unevenly as the performers prepare to play for the small crowd.
"They're fine," Elijah says once he rejoins me, smiling with relief. "It's up to you if you want to leave tonight or in the morning."
"Well, it's not every day we get the chance to be actually alone."
He strokes the back of my head. "No doubt I've exhausted you with all of this trekking."
"I've loved every second of it." I rest my hands against his waist. "I still can't believe we just stumbled on those things. Things your family touched, things you touched once."
"I'm amazed myself. Grateful." He kisses me softly, nuzzling against me. "Glad you were with me."
He doesn't surround me with his arms because I'd instantly begin shivering, but he doesn't release me either. The concert begins and neither of us move, silently deciding to remain and listen at a distance. It's a serene feeling, to be here, with him.
"I wonder what this all looked like back then," I say to him, amusedly. "I don't have the imagination for it."
"It was filthy, kind of barbaric. It definitely didn't resemble what you see now. The streets have been redone. When I was a boy this area wasn't even within the city's walls. This was countryside."
"That's insane... that you know that."
"I could show it to you."
"How?"
"Don't react."
Before I have the chance to ask him what he means, the world around me begins to change. When the distortion is done, I'm staring not at an orchestra, although I can still hear them. I begin to smile, realizing Elijah is showing me a mirage of his own memories. In front of me are buildings of stone, muddy roads, men guiding livestock through the streets. The people of his world wear mostly wool and brown cloth, and the women walk around with headdresses of various dyed colors.
He's right. There are no walls, only endless countryside... a very different view to the one I know I'm sitting in. It's daunting how abundant Elijah's memories are, how much he can still recall, even after all this time.
"Can you show me your parents?"
He doesn't answer me, and they don't appear for some time. I begin to worry I've asked for too much. That is until I see a slender woman walking with a basket. The fact that she's missing a headdress is what gives his parentage away. She has his eyes, his hair. Her face is incredibly kind, bright and full of youth. She was still young when she died, clearly having had Elijah as an adolescent if this is Elijah's memory of her. The man that joins her, talking to her privately, is Elijah's father.
I know that because he is the spitting image of him. It's a definite shock. Definitely older than her but still relatively young, he takes the basket from her hands with an adoring smile. The smile is so like Elijah's that tears spring to my eyes, tears of mostly shock, amazement. "They're beautiful. You look just like them."
"Thank you."
I glance to my side, finding Elijah's head-bent, concealing his inhuman eyes that are glowing a bright green. I grab his hand, bringing it to my lips gratefully, kissing his knuckles. The mirage fades, sparing anymore of his energy to be drained. The civilization reappears around us, no one the wiser to our momentary change of worlds.
I gaze at him, overwhelmed by my adoration. The fact that in the midst of such chaos, we were able to share a day as precious as today like this... it's a relief. For the duration of the concert, we stand closely, gazing at the humans enthralled in the music, allowing a peaceful calm to wash over us in this time capsule of history. He continues to tell me random tidbits and we laugh and play freely, unable to keep our hands off of each other. I lift my head from his chest, having been too lost in contentment to realize the concert has long since ended. The crowds are gone. The streets are empty. Other than a few random stragglers, we are alone.
"I want to show you one more thing before we find a room."
Most of the windows to shops and eateries lights have dimmed. "Is anything open?"
He takes my hand with a chuckle. "It's not open, but I'm still saying we visit it."
Suspicious, I let him lead me to his choice destination, too content to argue against whatever illegal actions he plans to partake in tonight. It's a quiet night, and a quiet city. Most have retired to their beds with the loss of the sun.
"Where are we going?"
"I thought we'd break into a church."
My initial sputtering turns into full-blown laughter. I stop my tracks, laughing until my belly hurts. "What?" I get out.
He shrugs, grinning with me. "What? We're not going to steal anything!"
"I'll probably burst into damn flames walking into that place!"
He rolls his eyes, tugging me around a corner. We're already here. The church itself, compared to the other architectural wonders of Florence, is quite underwhelming in appearance. Other than two morals on the outside, the walls of the church are plain. And yet Elijah regards it like an old friend. "Chesia Sant Ambrogio. The church of Saint Ambrose." He points to a tabernacle statue on the angled corner of the building. "It's a saint blessing. It blesses everyone who passes it."
"Was this here when you were young?"
"It was a different church. There was a female convent attached then. This version was made later on. But this is the place." He walks up the steps, glancing around for onlookers before reaching for the lock on the door.
"Elijah, don't you dare—"
Effortlessly, he tears off the lock in one swift pull, pushing the door open, beckoning me inside. "Come on. Quick."
I leap up the stairs, slipping past him, hoping we remain undetected. Last thing I want is a bunch of priests showing up to kick our sinful asses out. I'm pleased to find I don't burn on holy ground, nor does he. It's an incredibly strange location to be in with a vampire.
Both of our lives have been molded by sin.
The outside doesn't do the innards of the building justice. I come to a stop by the pews, blinking stupidly as I take in living history. Art murals, frescoes, altarpieces that have noticeably withstood the test of time. The colors alone make one lose speech... and that's before Elijah begins to light candles by the entrance.
I glance back at him, mouth open. "What is this place?"
We walk together through the narrow room, remaining close as we study the paintings dated back to the renaissance, the places where miracles were said to have taken place. Quietly, he takes my hand and tells me what he reads.
"Legend says a parish priest forgot to clean out the chalice after mass. When he returned in the morning, the chalice that had wine inside, held blood, said to be the fruit of divine incarnation. The ampoule that the blood was placed in is conserved here. It transformed the church into a place of pilgrimage."
"I wonder if it's true."
He smiles, looking surprisingly boyish. I imagine what it would have been like to look upon such a face back in his natural time, to be a girl awed by this face. He looks right among all of the historic beauty. His father's necklace sits against his chest, the delicate gold chain at home against his pale skin.
"This is amazing, Elijah."
He releases my hand, backing up but my eyes follow him. The look he gives me in passing makes my heart leap in my chest. It rises a blush in my cheeks, making my face hot. "I'm glad you like it."
I take a seat in one of the pews, chuckling softly to myself. "I've never been in a church."
"Never?"
I shake my head. "Avoided them my whole life."
Elijah smiles reservedly, turning towards the alter. It's dark, but the candlelight from the far end of the room somehow reaches him, touching his hair like a halo. He seems to gleam, and I wonder if there is a possibility that he could become more perfect than he already currently is.
"You look right in here," I confess, catching him off guard.
"We must get your eyesight checked then, my love."
I roll my eyes, leaning back into the booth. "I have perfect eyesight, signore."
He abandons his spot to come sit beside me. He rests his hand in my lap so I will place mine in it. He squeezes my fingers, gazing at the chairs ahead of us, the alter, the high ceilings.
"This place is where my father wedded my mother," he admits softly.
Holy—
My eyes nearly come out of my head. He must hear my heart begin to patter.
"Is that so?" He nods. I lean in until my chin is against his shoulder. "Ah, so the true motive comes out."
He chuckles, lifting my hand to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss to my knuckles. "No motive. I recall your feelings on that subject well."
I stare at the profile of his face, mesmerized. We're engaged. I already agreed... although begrudgingly. I become nervous, extremely nervous. I can feel my heartbeat in my fingers, pulsating. My neck becomes hot. A headache comes on. Despite all of that, my fingers slip out from the grip of his hand. My hand hesitates before diving into my coat pocket.
Shit, are you really going to do this?
I rethink it, biting my lip neurotically before making a decision. I lift my arm and hold my hand out before us. Elijah, realizing what I have wedged between my index finger and thumb, flinches in shock.
"I don't... hate the idea ... as much as I once did," I admit, showing him an onyx wedding band far too large for my own finger.
"I had to fight you for even the thought of it," he states immediately, his thumb running over the ruby I'm already wearing on my ring finger.
"I know."
"You hated the idea."
"I did."
"What's changed?"
"I didn't even know I felt different until I saw this today."
"You bought this here?" He chuckles. "When? I hardly left you."
"You were getting the sandwich."
His eyes narrow. "Sneaky."
"I didn't want you to know. I wasn't sure why I felt compelled to buy it. I didn't know when I'd actually give it to you... and then you brought me here."
His eyes move to mine, radiating so much intensity. "What... are you saying?"
"I think you know what I'm saying."
He shakes his head, refusing to let me off that easy. "Tell me what you want."
I look down, amazingly insecure. "I want you to wear my ring." His finger rests under my chin, nudging my face back to regard him. I gulp, trembling. "I want... to call you my husband."
His eyes are alight. "There are no witnesses."
"This is for us. We don't need anyone else."
He nods, agreeing. "The universe will hear us."
The quietness of the church fills our own silence, as neither one of us knows how to proceed. He makes the first move, pulling me up onto my feet with him. My knees buckle as he leads me to the center of the aisle, under the muraled ceiling. The hard ring is being squeezed in my palm. When he's facing me, and I'm facing him, is when my heart becomes erratic. This should be so easy, and yet, here I am, doing something I vowed to myself I'd never do.
And I actually want to do it.
"We aren't the traditional kind," he says, flashing me a lopsided smile. "We'll do this our own way?"
I wouldn't even know how to utter traditional vows. I nod, placing his ring on the nearby table, glancing to the door to ensure we're still alone despite the fact that Elijah would already know if someone were approaching.
Calm down, Cassandra. You fool.
"Take my hands," he whispers, holding his out to me. I offer mine eagerly, shuffling, unable to keep still. My eyes flash upwards, wondering about the eyes. The ever-watchful eyes. Will we be punished for this? Will Jehovah intervene? Will—
Rather than keep me at a conservative distance, Elijah pulls me to his chest. Stunned, brought back to the moment, I'm forced to gaze up at him. Something in his eyes makes it impossible to look away. He holds both of my hands to his chest, his heart, smiling softly.
"Are you here?"
Understanding his meaning, I nod, now solely focused on him. On his eyes. The soft waves of hair falling over his face. His parted lips.
"I've pledged you my soul, my mind, my body... in everything but name. My world begins and ends with you, Cassie. In this place of great meaning to me, I ask the higher sources... I ask my parents... to bless this union, to bless my bride, my beloved. May I spend eternity at your side."
My mouth feels suddenly full of cotton, weighed down by the enormous pressure of this moment.
"Did you really just come up with that?" I ask bluntly, making him laugh and sigh at the same time.
"I've had plenty of time to imagine."
"I...I don't have your eloquence."
He smiles testily, taking my cheek. "Speak from your heart, woman, and I will hear it."
The nervous amusement takes its time leaving our features. Each second that passes as he gazes down at me, open, vulnerable, desperate in some discreet way, unafraid to show me how badly he desires these words, how long he's probably anticipated this very moment.
I never dreamed of marriage. I had no expectations of it. If it were any other man...
But it's not. It's my hero, my confidant, my protector. Standing in front of me is the immortal man, vampire, god, that has devoted himself to preserving my insignificant existence. The horrors he's endured, the troubles he's taken—and yet, he still looks at me this way.
"It might... it might be wrong to exist for someone. Some people might see it as a weakness... an insult... to need someone like I need you, to feel empty when you aren't touching me, around me, talking to me. You are my favorite sight, Elijah de Ricci, and I'm not ashamed to say you possess me. I never wanted it... to be possessed... I was terrified of even the thought of it." My voice trembles. It's so hard to continue, to say this to him. "You took my soul, and that should have terrified me. But what you took, you gave." He smiles gently, resting his head against mine. His eyes have closed, but mine remain wide open, still intent on him. "The obstacles I would still face, the sacrifices I would make to see you smile... If I could give you everything you want..."
He squeezes my hand still strapped to his chest. "You have given me everything, Cassandra."
"I'd find you in death, Elijah. I'd never stop until we were together. I promise you that. I promise that I will always find you, in this life or another. In any form. You will never be alone again...Your wife will make sure of that. I will protect you—"
He nods, opening his eyes serenely. "Cherish you."
"Trust you—" I grab both sides of his face now, struggling to breathe. "We are stronger than forever, Elijah. We are. I believe that. No matter what happens—"
"We will find each other," he vows, releasing me to grab the blade securely tucked away at his hip. There's no hesitation. Almost eager to draw blood, such a powerfully bonding substance in our lives, I hold out my hand to him so he may cut me in oath. He hands me the blade and after making a small incision on him, I let the weapon clatter against the ground as our hands clasp firmly in unison, our fingers blending together as one.
"From this day forth, under the eyes of our ancestors, our gods and makers, we are wed... Cassandra de Ricci."
I grab the ring, slipping it onto his bloody finger, smiling at the ideal fit. He doesn't gaze at the ring on himself, or test out how different it feels, how much it weighs on him. He captures each side of my face, bringing his mouth down upon mine to seal it all.
I drink in all of his love, no longer scared or frightened.
He is gracious and giving and tender. He is all the things a man should be.
"You've made me whole," he breathes emotionally against my lips, full of passion. "A gift..."
His cheek is marked with my blood, and I feel his own on my face. It feels primal, unorthodox, a battle cry of some kind... the highest kind of devotion. We'd gladly drain ourselves dry for the other, that has been proven time and time again. I don't know what lies ahead for us, but that testament remains true.
We have risked all... to be together.
We'll risk even more.
He pulls me into him, shielding me from the rest of the world. Calm silence fills the room.
And then suddenly...
"Not eloquent, my ass. Your vows were better than mine," he whispers, somewhat begrudgingly, stripping away the immeasurable weight of our love from our backs. He makes me laugh at a time I want to cry with joy. He makes me hold him tighter, burying myself in the smell of him, the crook of his frigid throat.
"Yeah, well, I've had some time to imagine them too," I tease tearfully.
"You blew me right out of the water," he laughs. "Utterly."
I scoff exasperatedly, pulling my head back so I can glare at him. "Would you like a do-over then, husband?"
His eyes slant with enjoyment at my uttering of the word, even with its sarcastic undertones. Elijah clasps the nape of my neck, gaze intent on my mouth and shakes his head before taking it. "I'll live, wife."