Work Text:
I watch his fingers, the broadness of his hands, the power that hums beneath the skin. I have seen them curled in a fist, seen them tense and straining at some obstacle, the tendons ridged.
I have seen them gentle a horse, his touch soothing its wildness, calming the trembling in its flanks. There is command in his hands, and tenderness: both at once, a paradox to be studied at length.
I have seen his fingers pressed to glass as if to hold back Death itself, urgent against the barrier between us, a plea I could not heed.
But there is no barrier between us now.
His fingers touch me as the desert wind touches the sand; I am shaped anew each time.