Page 101 of The Weaver

It seemed so new, so fresh, though he knew he’d experienced it before. Happiness…but it was more than that. There was a serenity to it, a sense of satisfaction and fulfillment that was enhanced by his undiminished, ceaseless yearning for his mate.

This was the most content he’d ever been in his life. The happiest he’d ever been.

He separated Ahmya’s hair into thick strands as his lower hands flexed upon her hips.

Rekosh might gladly have remained here with her, might’ve built a home for them and spent the rest of their days together in this quiet place. Just him and his little flower. But neither henor Ahmya could do that. They could not forsake their tribe, could not cause any more worry.

This would be their final night here. Their final night in this ancient, crumbling ruin, where their love had truly blossomed.

Rekosh filled his lungs with her sweet, alluring scent and began weaving her hair into an intricate braid. Were the Eight ever to take his sight, he’d still be able to find Ahmya. Her fragrance was interlaced with his soul. It was part of him.

The fire popped, drawing his attention briefly to the flames.

He wasn’t ready to leave. Wasn’t ready to share her time or attention with anyone else. Part of him was actively searching for excuses, for any reason, however small, he could latch onto that would justify remaining here.

But they needed to go back. Not merely because their friends, their family, were in Kaldarak, but because Ahmya was far safer there than she was out here.

As Rekosh gathered the next strand to add into the braid, Ahmya sighed and settled her hands upon his forelegs. Her fingers gently stroked his fine hairs, suffusing them with her scent. A shudder rippled through him, leaving a delightful, anticipatory tingling on his hide. Her palms were warm, adding to the heat her touch stirred within him.

A soft hum rose from Ahmya. Rekosh stilled. It wasn’t a thoughtful hum, wasn’t a skeptical hum, wasn’t one of those brief hums of assent or satisfaction that humans often made. It was flowing, smooth, as though it was drifting upon an ever-changing wind.

It was a song.

And it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

The hum stopped.

“Are you okay?” Ahmya asked.

Was he okay? Why would she?—

Only then did he realize that his hands had ceased moving, holding her hair in a half-finished braid.

“Make that sound again,” he said.

Ahmya chuckled and petted his legs. Then she once more produced that song, except this time, her humming led into words. They were soft and lyrical, rising high and sweet, falling low and sultry.

Rekosh had been wrong.Thiswas the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

Ahmya was singing. He knew it for what it was, though the sounds she produced were nothing like vrix singing.

He forced his fingers back into motion as he listened. Her words were English, and though he knew many of them, he found their meaning more difficult to put together when delivered by song—and somehow, that only added to the beauty of it.

Rekosh closed his eyes. He could gladly listen to her sing through the night and into the next day.

He could happily spend his entire life listening to her lovely voice.

When the song ended, they sat in comfortable silence, which was broken only by the crackling fire and the rustling of leaves outside their shelter.

“Is your father still in Takarahl?” Ahmya asked.

Again, his hands faltered, and his eyes opened. But the weight he should’ve felt from her question, the weight he’d expected, didn’t come. There was only sorrow, a haunting song whispering along his heartsthread.

“He is,” Rekosh said.

“Did you visit him when you went back?”

“I did.”

---