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Memory is a burden, Sylus thinks, sprawled on his back as he stares up into the dark. Beside him, his huntress is already fast asleep, soft and sated from earlier. He tells himself that he has her now, that he’s found her once more. That this is all that matters.
And on most nights, it is. He’ll hold her and kiss her and love her and consume her, and she’ll clutch at him and sing for him and slumber in his embrace. Most nights, he’ll watch her for a while, gaze tracing the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, that fan of dark lashes trembling over her cheeks. He’ll bury his face in the crook of her neck, drink in the scent of her-which will now be mixed with the scent of him - and will let sleep claim him too.
Tonight, however, he breathes in the fragrance of honey-suckle and summertime grass. Tonight, he finds himself lost in time.
From this angle, her hair looks almost silver, catching in the moonlight the way it does. The plush of the mattress becomes the soft of heather and datura, and the canopy draping overhead bleeds into the starry sea of a summer night sky. He stares up at the ceiling, lets his mind wander, and soon enough, he’s back. He’s back in the meadow.
He’s almost certain he can hear the sigh of a gentle breeze sifting through the grass, feel its whispery fingers carding through his hair, tracing the bases of horns he no longer has. Or perhaps the hands are hers. He can see it all so clearly-her draped across his chest, breath warm against his skin as he raises a taloned hand to tuck a datura behind her ear, the flower an ember glowing defiantly against the ash and snow of her hair. She’ll smile at him, sweet and pretty, and he’ll run a finger over her jaw …
Beguiled by this reverie, he doesn’t notice when he raises his free hand, the crimson and smoke of his Evol curling around his fingers, a wispy apparition of a flower now cupped in his palm. Datura. The Devil’s Trumpet. Under the weight of his distant gaze, a shadowy fire engulfs the flower, the sham of a thing withering away with that satisfying crackle of energy. He hopes the sound won’t wake her.
So much time has passed, and yet the memory lingers. Well, that’s to be expected. Memory is a burden, after all.
A sharp little sting to the lobe and suddenly he’s on the bed once more. He turns his face to find her watching him, blinking the sleep out of her eyes as she flashes him a groggy smile.
He’s roused her after all. Briefly, he wonders if he should feel remorse.
“You’re brooding.” The accusation is a weightless one, and he huffs out a chuckle when she presses a finger to his brow, likely in an attempt to smoothen out the furrow.
“And here I thought I did a good job of wearing you out.”
“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m a hunter, remember? The epitome of good health. It’ll take more than that to tire me -”
Now it’s his turn to bite her.
“-I’m serious!” she huffs, shoving his face away from where he nibbles on her cheek. Oh, well. She’s wide awake now.
“Alright, Miss Hunter,” he drawls, pulling her closer with a nudge from his elbow. “You win.”
“Damn right I do,” she says haughtily, cheek resting against his chest. He’s quick to bury his nose in her hair, breathe a lungful in. Honey and heather, a meadow in spring…
“Why’re you still up?”
A smirk. “In case you’ve forgotten, kitten, these are my rising hours.”
It only widens when she scowls up at him, sick of his pet names. He’s got so many of them, too; sweetie since it falls so readily off his tongue, angel for that is the nature of her, and kitten for when he wants to rile her up. Perhaps he’s a bit of an ass, but she makes it way too easy.
“Sylus.”
“Angel.”
Her resigned sigh is an act of concession-a small victory.
“Did I wake you?” His free hand runs down the length of her arm, takes hold of her wrist. “You look like you have something to say.”
Her shoulders sag-no use in hiding.
“I…I was thinking.”
“Hmm?”
“You know,” she begins, peering up at him. “It’s a bit of an odd question, considering everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve done -”
“-You’re not going to go all shy on me now, are you, kitten?” he teases, pressing a kiss to the faint flush on her cheeks. He feels her shift- oh no, you don’t -and immediately drapes a long leg over both of hers, pinning her beneath him.
“You were going to kick me.”
“You can’t say it wasn’t deserved.”
“Ruthless,” he grins, using a knuckle to tilt up her chin. “But alright. I’ll stop whatever it is I did to rile you so. Tell me.”
Her eyes flit sideways, as if debating over confessing, before she finally heaves out a sigh and says, “What’s your name?”
That gets a laugh out of him.
“My name ?” he repeats, mouth moving to her ear. “With the way you were moaning it so prettily earlier, I’d assumed you already knew.”
“No! Not that! I meant- your name, Sylus. Your surname. The whole of it.”
A pause. “I mean,” she continues, voice small, “I just realised you never told me what it was.”
His name. He tilts his head back, gaze fixed on the canopy. He’s lived a long life, gone by many names, both in Philos and here, in the N109 Zone. A monster, a curse, the Devil himself. And, of course, there was Dragon-what the people of Tarus would whisper in hushed tones of fear and contempt. How he had been known before her.
The words are out before he can stop himself. “You gave me my name once before. I’m sure you can do it again.”
He winces when she laughs, the sound a touch incredulous, a touch unsure.
“What do you mean?”
He opens his mouth-but how could he tell her? What would he say?
We had gone by different names before, you and I. Yours meant noble, fit for a vassal of power as bright and brilliant as yours. And mine a curse, bestowed by a monster who was a mother to a monster who was a son. Shall I tell you how the Philosian was too ancient for you to speak, the first time I gave this piece of me to you? How brightly your eyes had sparkled, how sweet your voice had sounded, when you first whispered a new name in my ear? How do I speak of this to you, when you do not remember?
Perhaps one day he will tell her. Now is not the time.
“Sylus?”
The voice of memory bleeds in with the voice of her, and he finds he has to close his eyes and bite his lip to hide the tremble.
“You’ve softened it, angel,” he says instead. Is it appeasement or explanation, he can not say. “Before you, this name has only ever been spoken in anger and in fear. Perhaps it was once a weapon. But now, in your hands, it is a name of love.”
He raises her wrist to his lips, presses a kiss to the underside of it. “In a way, you’ve renamed me.”
He hears the hitch in her breath and his tone lightens considerably. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me a surname as well, one of these days. Or maybe-” a gentle bite “-I’ll just take on yours.”
“Mine?”
He nods, a wicked grin tugging on his lips. “Yours,” he affirms. “Unless you’re opposed to sharing?”
She eyes him suspiciously.
“This feels like a proposal.”
“Perhaps it is.”
“Sylus!”
A laugh. “Very well. It’s not.”
She’s still grumbling when he shifts onto his side, tucking her into his chest.
“Sleep now,” he hums. “I’ve got you. I promise.”
“If you promise to stay.” Her voice is soft, but the weight of what she says isn’t lost on him. Stay here with me, in this moment. Don’t wander off where I can’t reach you.
He smiles.
“Of course.”