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“You’ve been avoiding me.”
Safiyah sighs as she continues stocking drawers already full with replenished supplies, wishing she could shake off the truth in Zavala’s statement. For days, he occupied her thoughts and dreams, so much she had to put constant distractions in place to suppress them. She would never admit this to him.
“I’ve been busy,” she counters, “People’s lives depend on me, same as you.”
She glances up at him to cement her own claim, and the glow in his Awoken eyes seems to dim.
“Have I done something?” he asks, genuine concern in his softened voice.
A shiver crawls up her spine when a recent memory comes to the forefront of her mind.
In the late afternoon, pockets of sunset orange line the forest around them. The rough bark of a pine tree presses against her back, pieces of which were a nightmare to remove from her curls. Just before he kisse s her, his turquoise irises pour desire into her hazel ones, like water nourishing rich soil. To make it even more memorable, he’d drawn up energy from the earth to create a physical spark, making every nerve ending in her body buzz with electricity, as if billions of fireworks were going off in her cells. The feeling doesn’t subside for two days.
“No.”
“Then, what is it? After the other day in the meadow, I thought—” Zavala says nothing more. He doesn’t need to; she already knows what he is thinking.
“We can’t,” is all she says.
“Why not?”
“Our lives are too different. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”
“I don’t understand.”
Safiyah looks away with slight frustration. It doesn’t reside with him, but with herself, for being unable to express what she wanted to instead of what she needed to. She’d seen every injury possible inflicted from the constant hell of war—from gangrene limbs to bodies burned beyond recognition—none of it unsettled her, but why was admitting her love for him her greatest discomfort?
“Yes, you do. You have forever, I don’t. After I’m gone, it will have all been for nothing.”
Zavala hears an echo of Saladin’s words in hers, and it stings. Still, he does not want to prove his mentor right.
“That’s not true,” he declares, “It would have been for us.”
“Be reasonable, Zavala.”
His gaze remains upon hers for a brief moment before he turns away to survey the landscape outside a nearby window. He assumes a commander’s stance: straight back, hands clasped behind, dimpled chin jutting out with authority. Yet his shoulders slouch, burdened by a sadness he is too familiar with; he’s watched people live and die, their memory lost within generations, as if they never existed at all.
“From the time I was reborn, my path was laid out before me. I’ve walked it faithfully; my duty has always been in gratitude and service to the Traveler. But for the first time, I find myself questioning whether I should continue down this path when I have a desire to forge my own.”
Safiyah is standing now, listening closely to his introspective words.
“All these years, I’ve been a ship over open water, drifting towards a destination I may never reach. A Guardian can still die.”
Her eyes flicker over to Targe, whose single, unwavering eye watches her in return, as if to affirm what his Guardian says.
Zavala turns back to face her, and he softens into the man she’d come to admire. The earth beneath her feet rumbles as he approaches. Each step is bold, yet tentative, as if he is seeking permission to enter the next in a line of many closed doors within her heart, which remained shut long before they ever met. He would never know she had already opened them all, waiting for him to walk through.
“I know what lies ahead of us. Perhaps I am not asking for forever. I only ask you to be my anchor, and to grant me respite.”
“And still, knowing I will die and cause you heartbreak—”
“‘Til death do us part.’ Isn’t that the vow someone makes to the person they love?”
Tears form in her eyes when she deciphers the true ask hidden within his question. Without hesitation, she whispers, “It is.”
Zavala takes both of her hands in his, and holds them to his chest, right over his heart. “I wish to make this vow to you, Safi. If I must choose a path, then I choose you.”
~
One week later, they are married. The only witnesses to their union are the congregation of constellations sitting above them.
That night, Zavala doesn’t sleep; his mind is a blank canvas upon which he begins to paint the scene before him: his hand resting protectively over hers, the winding ridges of the blanket she’d knitted for him covering them both. She’d completed it a few days ago, and like her, it brought a certain warmth he’d never felt until now.
He reaches over to dry the lingering beads of moisture at her hairline with the backs of his fingers. This, too, he includes in his painting. They drift downward to trace the gentle curve of her cheek, her proud, defiant chin, and back up to her lips, where her breath places light kisses on his lavender skin over and over. The swirls of Light beneath pulse, as if to match the rhythm. As he watches her, he considers never sleeping again; each passing second is too sacred to him.
Safiyah shifts, nuzzling closer to him. She turns away from the silver glow streaming into their window to shelter herself more within the shadow of his body. Her lips part slightly open again when deep sleep returns.
He finally allows himself to drift into rest. He has plenty of time to complete his masterpiece.