Safrin
Safrin’s sorrowed gaze softened as Hadama reached for her, his touch warm even beneath the cool embrace of the sea. She allowed him to fold her hand within his own, her fingers brushing lightly against the place where his starlit heart beat steadily in his chest. For a moment, the vastness of her divine grief found a quiet solace in that simple connection, in the unwavering devotion of one who had known and cherished her daughter.
His offer—so humble, yet so deeply meaningful—caused a flicker of something indescribable to cross her features. Gratitude, perhaps. Or the sharp ache of knowing that, even in death, Seren had left pieces of herself scattered in the hearts of those who had loved her. You honour her, Hadama, she murmured, her voice low, carried through the water like a whispered lullaby. Her thumb brushed absently over his knuckles. And for that, you honour me.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if drinking in the offer he had made—his memories of Seren, the time they had spent together, the laughter and quiet moments of companionship that even she, for all her power, had never been privy to. I will keep them safe, she promised, and for the first time since she had arrived, the sorrow that dimmed her light brightened, if only slightly. But, Hadama— Her voice grew softer, threaded with something more than just grief now. Do not speak as if I will lose you as well.
There was a warning in her words, but more than that, there was a plea. Hadama was hers. He had been since the day she had chosen him, since the moment she had given him her light to wield in the world. She would not—could not—lose another. I have lost too much already, she whispered, her fingers tightening slightly in his grasp.
His offer—so humble, yet so deeply meaningful—caused a flicker of something indescribable to cross her features. Gratitude, perhaps. Or the sharp ache of knowing that, even in death, Seren had left pieces of herself scattered in the hearts of those who had loved her. You honour her, Hadama, she murmured, her voice low, carried through the water like a whispered lullaby. Her thumb brushed absently over his knuckles. And for that, you honour me.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if drinking in the offer he had made—his memories of Seren, the time they had spent together, the laughter and quiet moments of companionship that even she, for all her power, had never been privy to. I will keep them safe, she promised, and for the first time since she had arrived, the sorrow that dimmed her light brightened, if only slightly. But, Hadama— Her voice grew softer, threaded with something more than just grief now. Do not speak as if I will lose you as well.
There was a warning in her words, but more than that, there was a plea. Hadama was hers. He had been since the day she had chosen him, since the moment she had given him her light to wield in the world. She would not—could not—lose another. I have lost too much already, she whispered, her fingers tightening slightly in his grasp.
