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The first night on the road out of what was once her home, then her shadow-laced purgatory, and now little more than a mosaic of ancient battlefields and assorted tragedies ready to be reclaimed by nature, Isobel Thorm does not manage much sleep.
It is not the tension of her little alliance's precarious position, paired with the strenuous demands of her twilit vigil - not anymore. But the unease is relentless, set deep in her bones and in her gut. It seems to care little for her accumulated exhaustion, for the unlikely joy of their victory, or for the utterly unexpected wonder of having her angel returned to her.
After another restless hour slowly crawls by, even the delight of listening to the familiar sounds of Aylin in a deep, much needed sleep - slow, steady breaths, the occasional unintelligible murmur and soft snore, the rustling of her tossing and turning and stubbornly entangling herself in more and more blankets - fades into frustration.
So Isobel carefully slips out from under a warm, heavy arm and extracts her legs from a mess of kicked-at covers, only just managing not to trip. She retrieves her rumpled robes with some effort, fishing them out of a hastily discarded pile in the dark of the graciously donated tent, and throws them over herself before stepping out.
The rest of the camp is quiet, as even their fully elven compatriots are still engrossed in their nightly meditations. The fire has died down to embers. It is a warm summer night, but Isobel still suppresses a shiver.
It takes but a few steps to find a crumbling, moss-covered stone pillar to lean against. With the feeling of something taking at least part of the weight that seems to have descended upon her, Isobel stands watching the Moon and Her Tears, basking in the familiar light. But it is not as comforting as it should be, as she wants it to be. It hews far too close to that balcony at the inn, perhaps, and to all the twilit days and nights spent gazing upwards, in desperation-tinged prayers to keep the shadows at bay.
All too soon the face of her goddess completes its descent, sinks into branches and out of sight. Taking its place is the grey of pre-dawn, slowly staining the sky just above the treeline crowning the little hollow they have made camp in.
"Isobel?"
The voice is sleep-rough and tinged with concern. Judging by the way Aylin is still pulling on a very wrinkled tunic, she has wasted no time at all between awakening alone and launching into a search. The sight makes Isobel feel a slight twinge of guilt.
Isobel steps out from behind her rather disappointing shelter, only to be immediately caught with an arm around her waist and pressed against a broad shoulder in a comforting, comfortable gesture that needed no thought at all.
"Did I wake you, my love?" She says quietly, arms tight around Aylin in turn, looking up at her. "I'm sorry, my sneaking skills are not quite up to par--"
"No," Aylin cuts the apology off, shaking her head, dismissing clinging remnants of sleep, and, judging by the shadows lurking around her eyes, something darker, too. "You have done nothing of the sort. Do not worry."
Isobel pointedly does not release her gaze, does not allow for the easy dismissal. Aylin sighs and looks away, restlessly surveying the campfire remnants, the darkened trees, the ground at their feet - clearly displeased to find nothing worthy of her focus. Not breaking their embrace, Isobel reaches up to rub slow, gentle circles against Aylin's stomach, and gives her time.
"It is simply… difficult to sleep without you near." The confession feels like Aylin is drawing out word after heavy, resisting word, and each one tastes bitterer than the last. "The silence, and the stillness. It is…" her lips curl in distaste, "vexing."
Isobel lets the understatement slide. Feeling another rush of guilt that she knows very well is misplaced, she chooses to attempt lightening the mood instead.
"I suppose neither of us have much luck with sleep tonight. Well, perhaps we can look on the bright side - it means we are both awake for the sunrise."
The moment the idea dawns on Aylin is easy to pinpoint, as simple relish lights up her entire being - doubly so when she summons her wings with the smallest yet most eager of movements, shaking out glistening white feathers in anticipation.
"Would my beloved care for a better vantage point?" Aylin's smirk as she extends a gallant hand is a long-lost delight, and the beaming grin when Isobel takes it without a moment of hesitation feels like a warm, curative balm applied directly to her heart.
They have flown together before, of course. Stolen nights, being whisked off of her balcony and returned by morning - Isobel used to be quite well-practised at this. An arm below her knees, and another around her back and chest, while she winds her own arms around Aylin's neck and peppers kisses down her jaw, or combs fingers through her hair. All of it familiar, comforting, safe. All of it things she thought she would never get to experience again.
Her trust in Aylin is absolute, of course. But Isobel still finds herself tightening her hold and burying her face between Aylin's shoulder and neck for the first few moments, as those magnificent wings spread and make a few tentative, testing flutters.
She feels the whoosh and the sudden drop in her stomach, and the takeoff is, perhaps, a bit jerkier than she remembers. But it feels like all the clinging shadows fall off of them both, left far, far below, as gripping and as greedy as they are - for they cannot possibly keep up with the mighty beats of her beloved's wings.
Higher and higher and higher Aylin takes them as Isobel finally dares to truly look; higher even than the very top of Moonrise Towers, Ketheric's great grasp towards the heavens, had ever reached.
Finally, Aylin stops her ascent, ostensibly to let them enjoy the view that stretches out below and all around them. And it is spectacular, truly, there can be no doubt - but there is another sight Isobel wishes to take in and bask in first.
Her darling is of gleaming countenance, glorious and radiant, the first traces of sun glistening on her golden scars only serving to highlight the handsome, cherished lines of her face. But it is the charming tilt of her head, the softness in her eyes and the proud curl of her lip, the way her thumb rubs soothing circles into Isobel's shoulder while holding her aloft, that Isobel loves the most. She presses closer against the warm, solid chest, where that noble, bruised heart beats that Isobel vows to protect, to cradle in her hands with utmost gentleness and care, for as long as she is able.
"Truly wondrous to behold." The smirk on Aylin's face has faded into something softer, and her voice is unusually quiet in its awe, tinged with wistfulness. "To be welcomed home like this, as if I were one of Lathander's own."
There is an undercurrent of dissatisfaction, of something that might be bitterness there that Isobel notes and stores away for later. But she cannot deny the thought is appropriate - a blessing from the Morninglord himself, for a new beginning.
A dawn of their own, set alight the moment their eyes met across that throne room, the same way they had over a hundred years ago. When the Moonmaiden's newly arrived knightly emissary looked up after swearing fealty to the lord of the land, and when Isobel, dutiful at her father's right-hand side, knew her life was to be irrevocably changed by this woman's presence in it.
Then her mind rushes forward and catches on the word home. Aylin's favoured mode of expression is poetic and colourful, yes, but her embellishments and verbal flourishes are never meaningless or thoughtlessly done. She has come home, to Isobel, whose own home is lost to her in ways she has yet to fully take in. Where home might end up being for either, or both of them - that is something they will have to discover. But the task feels so much simpler now that they can do it together.
It feels a tad absurd to Isobel to feel so safe, when so much evil is still at large, and when there is so little between her and a certainly deadly drop. But held in arms she knows will never let her go is the safest she has felt in a long, long while.
The both of them stay quiet for a while after that, and indulge in the magnificence and unlikely miracle of it all. It is the first sunrise either has seen in a century, after all, and they get to witness it together.
And as the tendrils of gold unfurl over the land beneath them, driving away wisps of early morning mist from the winding banks of the Chionthar, rising above the impressive span of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, and rolling, roiling, spilling over to where the shadows once reigned - there it is, Aylin's dream, clung to for a century: dawn undoing a nightmare.
The sun climbs higher and higher, and Aylin gets tired. It is subtle, the strain: a slight downturn of the corner of her lip, pulling down the golden line that runs to join it; her brows furrowing, almost as if to squint at the bright light; the slightest tightening of arms and tremble of tension in her shoulders. Staying aloft in place like this is certainly taxing at the best of times. Gliding, yes - Aylin has told her of impressive distances travelled with ease by catching the air currents just so. But she has not flown in a hundred years.
Isobel doesn't know many of the details of the past century yet, and is not quite sure she ever will. But she knows Aylin's pride is not something that needs more wounding.
"My angel, perhaps it is time to return? It's… a bit chilly up here." Her words and the accompanying shiver are not altogether false. More importantly, the excuse works as intended, and after one last sweep to take in the view, Aylin shifts to take them back down without a word.
The landing, too, needs just a bit more practice. It is touching and heartbreaking at the same time, the way Aylin is obviously relearning tenderness and gentleness in all she does. Still, Isobel stays happily ensconced in her beloved's arms even when both of her feet are back on solid ground, any trace of the troubling, haunting restlessness that plagued her night long forgotten.
"Thank you," she beams up at Aylin, brings a hand up to caress her cheek, and feels her heart clench at the way Aylin leans into the touch immediately. "I've missed this." I've missed you. But it catches in her throat, for she has had so little time to miss anything at all, and Aylin has had nothing but.
"You need never miss it again," Aylin is solemn and ardent in that particular way of hers, when every simple word sounds like a sacred vow. Isobel chooses not to reply. Instead, she stands on tiptoes and pulls Aylin into a kiss, warm and sunlit.
The camp slowly comes alive behind them, the mounting sounds of a soon-to-be-busy morning drifting over. Isobel takes Aylin's hand and briefly raises it to her lips, then leads them both to face the day.