Thankfully, the second curse had worn off. She had found Nalani - bedraggled, washed up on the stone slabs leading up to the castle (or if you want to be fancy, the steps). Only slightly cut and bruised, Ciara had managed to heal her without much lack of energy. All of her food had been going to Ithuriel's hungry mouth, lately. Not that she minded. She would sacrifice her life as necessary to look after him and keep him safe. As a result, however, the curves had disappeared, and her skin was drawn tight across angular bones. She knew she was not the only one suffering. She kept a sunny smile fixed in place - kept it fixed against the traumas of the washed-out world.

There were few things nowadays which made her happy. When once the sound of the pebbles underfoot, the prickling sensation of humidity in her jungle, the gentle swell of waves surrounding her body, now was replaced with stones and stones and fires and rations; and more stones; and cramped conditions. Nowadays it was just Damon and Ithuriel which kept the brightness in her eyes. They never failed to cheer her up, even on the darkest and stormiest of days, even when there seemed to be no end to the flood.

She had often thought of them.
Together, in a relationship. She was happy with him, he was happy with her (she hoped - thought). What was going to happen? She knew what she wanted to happen. She wasn't sure if he wanted it. She wouldn't bring it up. Although she knows she can trust him with anything - well, pretty much - there's still a small fear he'd abandon her, cast her to sea like an old message in a bottle. Whose message is one of pain and sorrow.

She doesn't know where this sudden fear has sprung from. Perhaps it was the discovery of who her mother is; Damon had told her, finally. He had known. If he had not shared this, what else hadn't he have shared? It wasn't just that. She had already been abandoned once, what made it so hard to do it again? She doesn't know how her mother managed to just drop her and Keenan and Murphy off. She couldn't imagine ever leaving Ithuriel.

He's asleep now in his crib in his little room, with the door firmly shut. She, herself, was in the bathroom, doing whatnot. Damon's in bed, waiting.
Waiting for what, you ask?
Well, you can kind of guess by the silky pink undergaments, trimmed with black lace. Saucy. It hangs off of her body, with no flesh to fill it it looks like it has been draped over a skeleton. Not her fault, not at all.

She turns to leave, picks up the candle and places it on the table beside their bed. Then - then she turns her attention to Damon. Her lips meet his, and the contact is vibrant, strong, bold, sending pulses along her spine. A small, mischievous grin spreads across her face, and her hand slips under the cover.

Not really necessary to tell you what she's doing, except that, in the words of Affy the Great, it's 'unprintable'.

She stops, pressing her lips to his cheek (on his face). "I love you, Damon," she whispers to him. "I always will."