Croe’s magic had been with her so long, steadily growing and branching out like a spreading tree, that it was a novelty to have it stripped away. The last time had been before Angela was born, she realized…right before. So in a way, they had done this, she and Mallos, and only them. But last time their lack of magic was not by choice, and their affair was some illicit, hidden thing, and they did not love each other yet. Or did not know.
That time had been amazing. This was better.
It was very late when they finally parted, resting entwined in the grass. There was dew on the grass that they hadn’t rumpled, surrounding them in a twinkling halo of drops, like a distant sky. The breeze was slow and cool and Croe did not think she had ever felt so absorbed in the present as she did in that moment. She smiled into the tenderness of his kiss.
”Well. I’ve never loved anyone before. Not like this,” she smirks, trailing her fingers over his chest, her eyes a little out of focus. Croe didn’t want to be thinking about Lorraine, but one thing she said had been true…ish, in the middle of all the untrue things. Mallos had loved countless times before her, and probably would countless times after, but that did not concern Croe. What did….
”Tell me about the woman who took care of you when you were young,” she murmured, a little inflection in her voice conveying it as a request, not a demand. It seemed the most important of the things she should know. Croe could remember her own ntantá with vivid clarity, even before her memories were returned to her, thanks to an encounter with a spirit in the same oasis where he’d made fireworks for her over the clouds. Her eyes crinkled at the memory, and she looked up at his face, the openness and vulnerability in her eyes making her look young.
”I had one, too. A woman like that.”
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