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[Cezanne Abella]

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Taking a nervous breath and exhaling slowly, Cezanne followed Arahim up the stairs to the roof of his home, where lay a peaceful garden in shades of green and growth. In the center, an arcane circle was laid out meticulously, bearing power beyond anything she kept in her own home. Objects of great arcane power and magick had long frightened her if kept nearby. Not because they were dangerous in her hands, but because her home had always been so public that anyone might happen upon them and call upon their energy, even in the small hours of the night as she slumbered.

Cezanne watched Arahim intently as he removed his boots, wiggling his toes almost ritualistically in the grass. She smiled, removing her sandals as well. A boyish grin creased his lips, and she knew that this was the Arahim that hid behind the diplomatic and chivalrous façade, the one that not just anyone would ever see, and she was humbled by that tiny gesture.

A calm washed over Arahim’s face as he led her to the arcane circle and watched her as she stepped inside. The power was such that it could be felt through the soles of her bare feet as her skirts flowed around them. A vibration that wove itself through her spirit, pulsing with dischord at first, until her energy slowed to match, wave for wave, the circle’s energy resonating through her body.

The two stood tentatively before one another, Arahim watching Cezanne, and she, in turn, mustering the will to meet his gaze. When her dark green eyes finally met his, he smiled reassuringly and held out his hands to her, palms up. The moment she had both feared and longed for had arrived, and there was no going back. She reached out to him and clasped his hands in her own. Something akin to fire ran through her nerves in an instant. It started in her hands but spread through her body in a wave of heat, pulsed again with dischord, and immediately matched itself, wave for wave, with her own energy.

The two stood face to face, Cezanne’s thoughts unclear as she watched Arahim’s eyes. It was all so beautiful that her heart ached. The night breeze tousled his long hair and his gaze rested intently upon her as he gathered his concentration, then he closed his eyes. She watched as his lips formed the word, then she closed her eyes, as well.

“Myrshalee”

Cezanne was wholly unprepared for the sensation as tendrils of Arahim’s spirit as it passed through her, covering sinew, flesh, and bone as did her own, but his filled the spaces, made her whole in a way that she never thought possible. Her fears and dread vanished, and she was stronger, his courage bolstering where hers failed. With a voice that seemed somehow other-worldly to her, she spoke the same word.

“Myrshalee”

In an instant, the two were meshed as one. She could no longer tell where she left off and he began. Flashes of memory formed a lightning storm in her mind, of a boy who would be the man before her. Memories of shame and anger, pain and darkness, of chivalrous light and the passion of a growing paladin. The thrill of a first kiss and the tender face of his young son Christopher radiant above all these. Each she treasured as she passed over, never daring to let her tendrils graze any for more than a single brief second, as her own spirit covered him, sinew, flesh, and bone. She focused her strength on the portion of him that held the darkness of childhood and wrapped herself around it, craving nothing more than to protect him from these memories that she would not allow herself to see.

The memories slowed and began to clear, her physical body forgotten as it stood motionless, breathing evenly, hands clasped in his. Flashes of light and laughter and the faces of loved ones wove themselves between her own memories and became as the surface of water, a symbiotic flux of the two become one. In her mind’s eye, the water covered over with mists and Arahim’s face emerged, strong and youthful, from the haze. The two stood again, face to face, in this place created by them for this very purpose. Again his gaze lingered as he held out his hands, palms up. Cezanne took them without hesitation, and the circle was complete.

Within what could have been moments or hours, Cezanne again became aware of her surroundings. The warm breeze as it tossed her curls and blessed her skin, the call of the nightingale and the owl from the forest. The thick and earthen scent of the forest itself. The warmth of Arahim’s strong and sure hands as they held her own. The sensations pulled her back from the mist-shrouded lake and the eyes of the young paladin who would become the man she saw when she finally surrendered the vision and opened her eyes.

Arahim’s gaze rested intently on Cezanne’s face, and she searched it with her own, wondering how long she had lingered in the dream without him, and if the vision had only been her own. So many questions flooded her mind, but she could give voice to none. Arahim smiled, still holding her hands as she took a deep breath and exhaled with a sigh.

Finally, Cezanne relinquished the last of the moment, and they released one another, becoming two again. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came.

“Well. That was…” He stammered and trailed off.

A blessed peace washed over Cezanne, buoying her heart. She smiled, and nodded in agreement. “It was.”

[Arahim]

---

Like so many things, it began quietly.

A light touch, improbably brief.

The sparse feeling of passing a thing so closely, you swear you imagined it.

Looking for a pattern in the ivy.

The quiet cannot last.

Song burst upon Arahim like a field of dreamed flowers suddenly sprung to life. Opening their petals to a sky and sun that could only exist here, in this right now, in fragrant, clamorous unison. Impossible to imitate. Redolent, and heavy with an emotion whose complexity, and bare honesty threatened to overwhelm.

Wind and leaves sworled in a tumult all around her. Adding choral denotation to her voice.

Sometimes a droning chant, melancholic, and spare.

Sometimes soaring in bursts, as if unable or unwilling to contain what could not be spoken in simple language, or acted out...

Life bloomed in a kaleidoscope of tiny births wherever her light footfalls fell, no matter how short-lived the step.

Finding her rhythm, Cezanne danced.

Swept him up in her tempest, adding his voice to hers. Laughing at the jarring shock she imagined he must feel, and the perfect freedom she -knew- she felt.

Whispers ran light, feathery fingers over his bare skin.

Secrets...both painful and joyous. The very depths of which came as little surprise to Arahim, though he could not rightly say why.

Pieces of Arahim, where pitted or empty, she filled with generous abandon. Smiling her smile, and slipping her strength into him.

No pause. No uncertainty.

Several times as they danced (as Time lost its definitions) she lifted his gaze away from some far corner, catching him within her eyes. A consoling look, tinged with a knowing, but sad smile that stated simply, "Leave that be."

And then, just as quickly, the dance became memory.

The aria quieted.

Eyes opened, her hands still in his, Arahim remained Arahim.

Cezanne remained Cezanne.