The fire burned low, casting shadows that for once held no prophecy, no threat—just the simple interplay of light and dark that had existed since the first flame. Ashara slept deep between layers of fur, her small chest rising and falling with the uncomplicated rhythm of a child who'd finally been allowed to be just that.
And I... I was empty of everything but myself.
No voices crowded my mind. No divine presence pressed against my consciousness. No echo of what I should be, could be, must be. Just Aria, sitting in firelight, feeling my own heartbeat like a stranger learning its rhythm for the first time.
Dorian sat across from me, sharpening his blade—a habit that had nothing to do with need and everything to do with giving his hands purpose while his mind wandered. I watched him in the flickering light, this man who'd anchored me through possession and fracture, who'd held steady when I'd been everything but.
"Stop," I said softly.
His hands stilled, amber eyes finding mine. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." The word tasted foreign—when had nothing last been wrong? "That's why I need you to stop. Put the blade down."
He set it aside without question, watching me with the careful attention of someone who'd learned to read the storms in my silences. But tonight held no storm. Tonight held something else entirely.
I moved around the fire, each step deliberate, until I knelt before him. His breath caught—not with desire but with recognition. He knew this wasn't about need or desperation or seeking oblivion. This was about something quieter. Deeper.
I took his hand in both of mine, studying the calluses that spoke of battles fought for us, for her, for the simple right to exist without divine interference. Then, with careful intention, I placed his palm against my side—where the birthing scar no longer burned with cosmic fire, where silver marks had faded to simple flesh.
"I don't need to be sacred tonight," I whispered. "I just want to be wanted. Not as a vessel, not as prophecy, not even as a mother. Just as..."
"Aria," he finished, voice rough with understanding. "Just as Aria."
His thumb traced the scar's edge with reverence that had nothing to do with worship and everything to do with witness. He'd seen these marks made, seen what they'd cost, what they'd saved. Now he touched them like maps to guide him home.
"May I?" he asked, though his hands remained still, waiting.
I answered by leaning forward, capturing his mouth with mine. The kiss was soft, searching—a question asked and answered in the language of lips and breath. When we parted, I saw my own hunger reflected in his eyes. Not the desperate consumption of those who'd been too long apart, but the deep want of those who'd found each other again after being lost.
He lifted me—carefully, as if I might break, though we both knew I'd survived unbreaking things. I let him, let myself be precious in his hands, let myself be fragile even though fragility had nearly killed me once. Because choosing vulnerability with someone who'd earned it was its own kind of strength.
The furs were soft beneath us, warmed by proximity to the fire. He laid me down like I was worth savoring, then paused, just looking. I felt exposed—not by nakedness but by being seen without the armor of purpose, without the shield of greater calling.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm remembering," I admitted. "What it feels like to be touched without the world watching. Without consequences. Without—"
He silenced me with another kiss, this one deeper, surer. "Without anything but this," he said against my lips. "Just this. Just us."
His mouth found the scar at my throat—the first mark the gods had left, the beginning of everything. He kissed it like an apology for every moment it had burned, like a promise that it could be just skin now, just memory without weight. Then the mark on my shoulder, my ribs, the silver line across my belly where Ashara had fought her way free of divinity.
Each kiss was a reclamation. Each touch said: This belongs to you. Not to prophecy. Not to power. To you.
When he finally joined with me, it was with the careful reverence of someone approaching holy ground—if holy ground were made of flesh and choice and the simple human need to be held. I gasped, not from pain or overwhelming pleasure, but from the shock of feeling present. Entirely, completely present in my own skin.
We moved together slowly, no urgency driving us. This wasn't about chasing release or forgetting trauma or proving we'd survived. This was about remembering. That bodies could be for more than battle. That touch could heal rather than claim. That love could be quiet in a world that demanded we be loud.
"I missed you," I whispered into the curve of his neck.
"I never left," he replied, misunderstanding.
"No—I missed me. The me who could feel without fearing what I'd summon. Who could want without wondering what price the wanting carried." I pulled back to meet his eyes. "You waited for her to come back."
"I'd wait forever," he said simply. "In any timeline. Any reality. Any version of the world."
The words broke something in me—not shattering but opening. I moved against him with new freedom, chasing not climax but connection. The slide of skin against skin, the catch of breath, the perfect imperfection of two scarred people choosing gentleness.
When release finally claimed us, it came like tide rather than storm—inevitable, encompassing, then peacefully receding. We lay tangled afterward, my head on his chest, his fingers combing through my hair with hypnotic patience.
"Thank you," I murmured, already drowsing.
"For what?"
"For seeing me when I couldn't see myself. For wanting the version of me that existed between the dramatic moments. For—"
"For loving Aria," he finished. "Not the vessel, not the mother, not the survivor. Just Aria."
"Just Aria," I agreed, the words like freedom on my tongue.
Sleep pulled at me, and for once I didn't fight it. Here in his arms, with our daughter safe and the world momentarily quiet, I could rest. Not as someone bearing cosmic weight or prophetic purpose, but as a woman who'd chosen to be human and found that choice was its own kind of sacred.
The fire burned lower. The night deepened. And I slept without dreams, without visions, without anything but the simple peace of being held by someone who'd waited patiently for me to remember I was worth holding.
Just Aria.
It was enough.
It was everything.
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