@lionscrowncd [ BATTLE ]: as they prepare to go on a dangerous mission, sender shares a final moment with the receiver, and tells them they love them, just as they head out to fight.
𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟, 𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭. ‘Twas not the name he was born with, but the name he has now. And it is his own. The singular definition of his self that he understands. When all else that is his is but on loan from her, when all else that he has some claim to is also shared with her, then must he find the borders between they two. He sees it at times, the singular thread that had been they that’d weaved through the ages ‘til that moment when they’d been split in twain and from that moment do these borders continue to widen. Yet not enough. Never enough when all that drips about him is ever tainted with the touch of Marika.
What can he be then but some growth excised from the greater body, left to fester on its own in the cold. The gold that he wears now are from her, the hammer that rests upon the table is as much his as it is hers. When he holds it, is the weight of it familiar, this weapon that is an extension of himself. The runes within come alight by his touch alone. With it will he exact divine judgement upon the battlefield, part god made mortal champion to a goddess now. This is all he is, he supposes, no more her weapon upon the snow.
There is movement from behind, Godfrey who shares his tent now finally stirred awake. Radagon bothers not to look, though well can he envision the glory of his companion’s body, having been welcome to it the night before. Cut from the divine and still Radagon aches in a way that is utterly mortal. Held tight against Godfrey, is it so easy to allow the borders of himself to unravel, lost to a brief moment beyond grace and gold and all things tied to fate and destiny. ‘Tis always fleeting, but with Godfrey can he believe it to be eternal.
A large hand comes to settle against the small of his back, so warm and comforting that Radagon finds himself easing back, allowing Godfrey to guide him back to the bed, where he’s pulled into the man’s embrace. He’s handled as though he weighs nothing at all, brought to straddle Godfrey’s lap and to feel the pleased rumble through his chest as Godfrey begins to work through his vast locks of crimson red. Fingers card through his unbound hair, the scarlet locks falling as a river of blood down his back. Radagon can ill comprehend why Godfrey seems to enjoy his hair so much when the color itself is blasphemy, but here is he now and Radagon is too content to do much in protest.
“Come what may,” Godfrey’s fingers still, stirring Radagon to pull away, able to at last behold the man who has held him together. Those hands upon his body, that has cradled his very heart and soul, and allowed him in turn to know the borders of his own self, he wants the touch to continue, to feel Godfrey pressed against him once more. There is a tenderness there, that twists Radagon’s own heart, the tightening knot within his chest. He holds his breath, wanting to look away yet unable to deprive himself of this affection. “Be it upon the field of battle or elsewhere, ever will thou have me at thy side. I am thine, Radagon. Ever and always. I have pledged myself to thee.”