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She didn’t know when it happened. Initially, she seriously considered his pledge that allowed her behead him at any moment quite often. Then, it was less often. Then, it was all empty threats (…mostly). He probably realized they were empty before she did. But, when did they become empty? Perhaps in the wake of another thoughtful, askew glance from him that she caught, she concluded that her life was mostly improved with him around.
Of course, this made sense. He came from the same village. There ought to be a sense of camaraderie. What kind of person would she be, killing one of the only connections she had left of her home? Sometimes they’d reminisce about some faint shared memories. It felt warm, in the way a fire that was about to exhaust all its fuel does. The old shop owner, the cranky woman at the fish market, the orange tree that the kids swung around on. How curious it was that they’d met each other as adults, despite various chances to cross paths before. She may have caught a glimpse of him practicing his dancing outside, he may have saw her practicing kendo, dismissing the other as just another member of the village. They didn’t need each other then.
They need each other now. She knew before she could admit it to herself. Usually, she would keep him at arms length, like she did with everyone. He made it hard, he had a habit of doing favors, entirely unprovoked. Giving up his meals, letting her keep the blanket, keeping watch for the night so she could rest. When that gap between them closes, the floodgates of possibility open. Usually, she’d shut them immediately, lest she overflows with an unfamiliar emotion. Usually.
His feelings for her are an open secret, an open flame he carries with him. Sometimes, she wants to share that warmth. Sometimes, getting close enough to almost burn. Their first kiss was unceremonial. It was quiet. It was all she needed. They pulled away at the same time, and sat in silence. Of course, she wasn’t smiling. But neither was he. His solemnity was almost reverent, waiting for her to decide the next move. No jokes, no changing the subject. She turned her head, he kissed her cheek, right where her tattoo ended, her neck, down to the collarbone. After all the battles her body has been through, he still treated it so carefully. Without saying anything, he knew that was as far as she’d let him go. The gates were closed again. They returned to their separate beds.
Maybe one day, when all the gears were gone, when world peace was obtained, if they’re not dead by then, maybe. If the horror they endured as children never happened, maybe. Or maybe they’d be married off to someone else in the village, destined together in some far flung life after that. Maybe this is the silver lining. Maybe she could acknowledge that.