Alternate/Companion piece to my fic "aftermath". Set 5-7 years after the end of the series. Written to the song "Tenerife Sea" by Ed Sheeran.

Rating: T

Trigger Warnings: Mild sensuality, all characters aged appropriately.

i.

He draws her close with ink-stained fingertips, hands but a hairs breadth above her skin as they traverse the silken plain between her shoulder blades. She is trembling and wide-eyed with awe, heart fluttering within her breast and so blessedly in tempo with his. She is wrapped within a bed sheet, cheeks dusted with the color of sunsets and eyes sparkling with the light of hopeful trepidation. She is here, in flesh and hair and blood and bone, and she is within his arms and smiling.

For years he has longed to hold her like this, simply within his arms and close to his heart, and the fact that he can finally feel the willowy twine of her arms around his neck makes the salt of his tears taste sweet.

ii.

She skips to the edge of the lake with a sanguine sway of her skirts, light blue and fluttering in the warm summer breeze. Her hair shimmers a hundred different shades of red beneath the light of the late morning sun, and despite the shade of her large sun hat her eyes are breathlessly radiant.

He follows close behind, tugging along a quaint woven picnic basket filled with fresh fruits and breads, watching as her smile outshines the sun on her cheeks. She is everything the spring could hope to be and more, filled with life and beauty and love, and he realizes for not the first or the last time that he is blessed.

iii.

Their fingers are knotted as she pulls him down the darkened path. The woods are a tangle of shadows and inky silhouettes, but somehow she is able to lead him with only the faintest of light from the stars above them. He can only make out the soft curve of her profile but he can hear the excited, airy titters that fall from her lips. She urges him on with a tug or a gleeful chirp until they stumble onto the dock with a laugh as bright as the afternoon sun. It has become a ritual of theirs, to steal away into the night to trace the constellations.

They settle on the shore side, cradled together in the nest of tall grasses. They sprawl out like children amongst the covering of weeds, hands still tangled and voices hushed despite the quiet of the evening. She counts each pinprick of light above them and he tells her each one's name, and together they weave stories and galaxies until the moon is high in the sky and his eyelids grow to the weight of lifetimes.

Her voice a soothing lullaby that matches the harmony of the breeze-rustled treetops, and he falls asleep to the sound of her whispers and awakens to the feather-light press of her hand to his cheek.

iv.

She takes to perching on the windowsill on rainy days. His old comforter has become a favorite of hers, an expansive blue waterfall of well-worn cotton that she wears as both shelter and shield, dragging behind her like a train as she trails through the house like a duckling. He can always find her curled on the seat of the small bay window, trailing the raindrops with bay-blue eyes.

Sometimes she'll catch him staring in the doorway with green eyes as vibrant as the dew-covered leaves out the window. She'll take his hand and pull him against her until they're curled together and precariously balanced, his arms draped around her shoulders as she nestles against the curve of his throat, eyes cast upwards to count the droplets of water that run down the glass. He smiles against the crown of her head, hair tickling his nose as he presses his lips against her head and simply breathes.

Then there are the times where the rainstorm will swell, the sky growing so gray that the world beyond their living room all but lost in the downpour. It will rattle against the windowpane, echoing like drums against the shingles of the roof, and he will pull her up into a dance. The storm will provide them no rhythm, but they will spend the afternoon finding their own in the cadence of their mingled breaths. Sometimes they find it to be an elaborate pas de deux and sometimes it is a simple sway of their feet, but always it makes them forget the world beyond their window.

v.

Sometimes she's scared, and sometimes he is too. Between them and within them there is a war's worth of scars, and sometimes when the night is too dark they'll find themselves entwined together beneath a safe haven of blankets. She nestles beside him until the plains of their figures melt together, his hands tangled in the silken ribbons of her hair as her thin, shaking fingers clutch at the soft wool of his shirt. It is just as dark beneath the covers, but together it's easier to wait for the dawn.

vi.

Her voice is still a novel treasure, and he revels in the sound of it. He will listen to her for hours if allowed. Sitting on the dock or walking together through town or merely gathering for breakfast at their kitchen table, he listens to her reacquaint herself with her speech. He finds an odd joy in the way she says "strawberries", and secretly delights in the slightly nasal way she pronounces her French when they speak of their craft. But what he loves the most is the way she says his name, like each syllable is a sacred word that she is privileged to speak. His name forever sounds like a benediction on her lips, and he finds forgiveness of his demons in the way she whispers.

vii.

He shares every word he writes with her. From the expansive, scrawling sheets of parchment to the half-thought scribbles on the corner of a note, he presents it to her with an edge of trepidation because she is both his greatest muse and his most vital critic, and her approval gives him the will to put his pen to paper.

She is always in awe when she reads it, slate blue eyes shimmering with a pride that makes his heart thrum beneath his ribs because of course she likes it, she always likes it, because no matter what it has come from him. She will be critical where it counts and a lightning rod for his moments of sudden inspiration, but always there will be that gleam of admiration and it makes him feel like for once in his life, he's done something worth being proud of.

viii.

She makes it a habit to kiss his scar whenever she can. Sometimes it's a fleeting press of petal-soft lips to the back of his hand as they wander through the streets of the city, his hitched breath lost among the bustle and noise of the people. Other times it's a lingering pressure that speaks volumes despite her uncharacteristic quiet.

The tightness in the back of his throat implores him to say something, but despite his self-given title of tale spinner he finds himself to be at a loss for words. It is just as well, he supposes, because through the years they've come to read each other with a glance and he knows without her saying so. But he never lets her linger in such thoughts for too long, for he knows very well how deep that lake can go. So when he sees her floating down again he will bring her up for air with a brush of his palm to her cheek and a gossamer press of his lips to her forehead.

ix.

In the evenings they will settle by the fireside and he will brush her hair. The long, silken strands of red get caught on his calloused fingers but he is always careful to make sure that they are free of ink, and he hopes the thought is consolation. It always seems to be, with the cheerful way she goes on about her day, speaking his name like a holy prayer and smiling at him with eyes like storms of starlight as he slowly braids it back together. He knows her strength but still treats her with gentle hands like porcelain, because between them there is more than simple admiration.

In return for his attentions she rubs his sore hands and works the tension from his palms and hangs on each word of his stories, giving her opinion when asked and her praise whenever else. She does not treat him with gentle hands, but with ones that are small and pale and sturdy, a constant beacon in the fluctuating tempest of his mind. They are benevolent hands that are tender when they cradle him to her chest and strong when they lead him through the town and through the storms, and each night he takes her by these soft-strong hands and leads her to their room to settle down to sleep.

x.

Sometimes she's scared, and sometimes he is too. But sometimes they're okay, and instead of counting the hours until dawn they'll count the stars from their window, or the freckles on her skin. Sometimes they'll count the rise and fall of the other's chest, and sometimes they'll count the knots on the wooden ceiling above them. They will measure the distance between shoulders and fingertips and traverse the plains between lips and heartbeats.

But most of the time they are content to just lay together and count the stars, because for years they have longed to hold each other like this, within their arms and close to their hearts, and at last their end is happy.