It's too much to bear my darlin', the weight of the world
And I would carry it for you
Noah had not slept.
Not truly.
He had drifted at the edges of it, body still and breathing even, but his mind had remained alert in the quiet way only hunters understood. Every shift of her weight, every uneven breath, every tightening of her hand in his shirt had kept him anchored to the present. He did not resent it. Not the ache in his back, the stiffness in his neck, the slow numbness creeping through his arm where she had been.
She had rested. That was enough.
When she stirred, his cheek lifted slightly from where it had rested against her hair, glacier eyes opening to the soft gray of morning filtering through the curtains hesitantly, as though unsure whether it was welcome. Her fingers loosened from his shirt, and he carefully flexed his arm once feeling returned with pins and needles. He never pulled away, though, and only shifted his body to a different position once she had decided what to do.
He watched her unfold with quiet attention, ready to catch her if the strength she borrowed from him faltered. It was there in the bond and he let it remain, a hand at her back even once he no longer physically touched her.
"I am happy to go with you." Noah said simply. There was no hesitation, no reconsidering. The decision had been made the moment she asked the night before, carved into him as cleanly as any oath. He pushed himself up from the couch, rolling his shoulders once to shake out the stiffness before stepping closer, just so. “We’ll take packing at your pace, and the travel. There’s no rush. Flora will be there." He said with the confidence as deep a the snow on the tundra.
His eyes moved from her's to the kitchen behind her, and he said, "I'll get you something to eat while you start, then I'll join you." Even if she didn't eat it now, Noah would be sure to bring them enough for her to eat on the skyship. That was a choice Hotaru didn't have -- eating -- only the timing of it.
Noah moved through the house with the quiet efficiency of someone who understood that noise could be a wound.
He began in the kitchen, not asking what she wanted, intending to give her only what she could manage. The rhythm of it grounded him. Small acts, steady acts. The kind that reminded the body it was still alive even when the heart lagged behind. When he had gathered enough for her to eat, small portions of a few different things that felt as neutral as he could make them, he watched the doorway to the bedroom where she had slipped through on own feet, slowly steadying.
When he brought the plate to her, he didn’t linger over it. He set it within reach, close enough to be effortless. Packing came next. He looked to see what she had gathered already. It wasn't much, as she had said, enough to fit in the bag she placed on the bench at the end of the bed. Noah's jaw feathered. He folded what she handed him, placing them in the bag, never questioning what she kept or what she left behind. The house felt different in daylight, grief no less present but softer at the edges, like fog lifting just enough to reveal the path without clearing it completely.
Silence settled between them, but it was not empty. It was breathable. He filled it only when he felt the tension crest in her, when the bond flickered with overwhelm or hesitation. Otherwise, he let the hush remain, his presence a stronghold across the bond.
At one point, as she paused too long over something small and insignificant, Noah stepped beside her and took the weight from her hands without comment, placing it carefully into the bag as though the choice had already been made.
Once they were finished, Noah closed the door of the house behind him and wondered -- hoped -- in the closed off part of the bond, if she would ever return to this doorstep.
FIN
Not truly.
He had drifted at the edges of it, body still and breathing even, but his mind had remained alert in the quiet way only hunters understood. Every shift of her weight, every uneven breath, every tightening of her hand in his shirt had kept him anchored to the present. He did not resent it. Not the ache in his back, the stiffness in his neck, the slow numbness creeping through his arm where she had been.
She had rested. That was enough.
When she stirred, his cheek lifted slightly from where it had rested against her hair, glacier eyes opening to the soft gray of morning filtering through the curtains hesitantly, as though unsure whether it was welcome. Her fingers loosened from his shirt, and he carefully flexed his arm once feeling returned with pins and needles. He never pulled away, though, and only shifted his body to a different position once she had decided what to do.
He watched her unfold with quiet attention, ready to catch her if the strength she borrowed from him faltered. It was there in the bond and he let it remain, a hand at her back even once he no longer physically touched her.
"I am happy to go with you." Noah said simply. There was no hesitation, no reconsidering. The decision had been made the moment she asked the night before, carved into him as cleanly as any oath. He pushed himself up from the couch, rolling his shoulders once to shake out the stiffness before stepping closer, just so. “We’ll take packing at your pace, and the travel. There’s no rush. Flora will be there." He said with the confidence as deep a the snow on the tundra.
His eyes moved from her's to the kitchen behind her, and he said, "I'll get you something to eat while you start, then I'll join you." Even if she didn't eat it now, Noah would be sure to bring them enough for her to eat on the skyship. That was a choice Hotaru didn't have -- eating -- only the timing of it.
Noah moved through the house with the quiet efficiency of someone who understood that noise could be a wound.
He began in the kitchen, not asking what she wanted, intending to give her only what she could manage. The rhythm of it grounded him. Small acts, steady acts. The kind that reminded the body it was still alive even when the heart lagged behind. When he had gathered enough for her to eat, small portions of a few different things that felt as neutral as he could make them, he watched the doorway to the bedroom where she had slipped through on own feet, slowly steadying.
When he brought the plate to her, he didn’t linger over it. He set it within reach, close enough to be effortless. Packing came next. He looked to see what she had gathered already. It wasn't much, as she had said, enough to fit in the bag she placed on the bench at the end of the bed. Noah's jaw feathered. He folded what she handed him, placing them in the bag, never questioning what she kept or what she left behind. The house felt different in daylight, grief no less present but softer at the edges, like fog lifting just enough to reveal the path without clearing it completely.
Silence settled between them, but it was not empty. It was breathable. He filled it only when he felt the tension crest in her, when the bond flickered with overwhelm or hesitation. Otherwise, he let the hush remain, his presence a stronghold across the bond.
At one point, as she paused too long over something small and insignificant, Noah stepped beside her and took the weight from her hands without comment, placing it carefully into the bag as though the choice had already been made.
Once they were finished, Noah closed the door of the house behind him and wondered -- hoped -- in the closed off part of the bond, if she would ever return to this doorstep.
FIN
