set aside your soul
She came.
She was here, despite all of his failures.
Despite his silence.
She was kind.
The breath in his chest snagged at her words, the smallest fissure breaking open in the place where grief had hardened him. His gaze lingered on the shawl, luminous now beneath her touch, and the sting of memory pressed sharp against his heart. He held on to those words like a lifeline as snow clung to the hem of his cloak. While he knew that his discharge brought back with him mortality, the weight of it set in his bones at Safrin's words -- at, perhaps, her promise.
He then lifted his eyes to the herald, reverent but steady. “It has,” he breathed, voice tinged achingly with all the time of silence between them. "and I am sorry for that." Truly, he was. The regret of it was like a shard of ice in his chest, cold and tight. The words left him like a confession, like hearth smoke curling into the cold night. His shield, that celestial gift she had once entrusted to him, remained unfinished—its strength dampened by his own faltering. War, loss, and the hollow weight of Cordelia’s absence had drawn him away, but excuses sounded brittle against the reverence of her presence. He knew that she knew. He trusted her.
Noah searched her star-bright eyes for the trace of acceptance, of possibility. “I came because I don’t want the silence to be all that remains between us. I want to honor you, with a new shrine. I want people to know that, even with faults as big as mine, you and Vi still remain.” The words trembled, not from uncertainty, but from the force of conviction long dammed within him--because it was still there, a respect and admiration for the god and the herald that had chosen him. Even when he failed, over and over and over, their kindness and mercy was still there. Still here, now.
She was still there. He swalloweed the lump in his throat, the emotion so raw and tender within him he thought he might break if he lingered on it.
She was here, despite all of his failures.
Despite his silence.
She was kind.
The breath in his chest snagged at her words, the smallest fissure breaking open in the place where grief had hardened him. His gaze lingered on the shawl, luminous now beneath her touch, and the sting of memory pressed sharp against his heart. He held on to those words like a lifeline as snow clung to the hem of his cloak. While he knew that his discharge brought back with him mortality, the weight of it set in his bones at Safrin's words -- at, perhaps, her promise.
He then lifted his eyes to the herald, reverent but steady. “It has,” he breathed, voice tinged achingly with all the time of silence between them. "and I am sorry for that." Truly, he was. The regret of it was like a shard of ice in his chest, cold and tight. The words left him like a confession, like hearth smoke curling into the cold night. His shield, that celestial gift she had once entrusted to him, remained unfinished—its strength dampened by his own faltering. War, loss, and the hollow weight of Cordelia’s absence had drawn him away, but excuses sounded brittle against the reverence of her presence. He knew that she knew. He trusted her.
Noah searched her star-bright eyes for the trace of acceptance, of possibility. “I came because I don’t want the silence to be all that remains between us. I want to honor you, with a new shrine. I want people to know that, even with faults as big as mine, you and Vi still remain.” The words trembled, not from uncertainty, but from the force of conviction long dammed within him--because it was still there, a respect and admiration for the god and the herald that had chosen him. Even when he failed, over and over and over, their kindness and mercy was still there. Still here, now.
She was still there. He swalloweed the lump in his throat, the emotion so raw and tender within him he thought he might break if he lingered on it.
Noah
let tomorrow realize itselt
