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Salvador senses the faint warmth of dawn caressing the edges of his bandaged eyes, the gentle light that no longer needs his eyes to find, but he has them open anyway, a habit perhaps rather than need.
He feels the chill of the morning flowing into the chamber he’s currently in; the sky is only just waking, pale and muted, but it is enough to whisper to him that daybreak draws near. He almost always rises the earliest, his devotion as the bishop rises unbidden, his habits etched deeper than any scar.
He turned his awareness over to his side, his own broad shadow falling across the Keeper’s sleeping figure like a protective mantle. His senses zeroed on everything conjured from the Pale Messenger—the gentle rise and fall of their chest like waves, the soft tide of their breathing, the way they instinctively curl towards him for comfort, shelter.
A smile blooms on the bishop’s lips, quiet and reverent. With infinite care, he slowly gets up from the bed, being mindful of the slightest creaking of the bed whenever the weight shifts in protest of the wood and mattress underneath him.
He freezes when it does, breath held, an image of the statue carved from compassion itself, unwilling to shatter the fleeting peace he has. The poor lamb is tired and bears the burden enough as it is, and one of the moments of respite they have is when they drift into the dreams that Salvador is trying to guard.
He sighs in relief when the Keeper remains undisturbed, cocooned in his cloak in serenity, and only then does he move. Salvador moves light and barely makes any sound (which startles the Keeper a lot, so he wound up having to make himself known to not surprise him) to prepare what small offerings he can bestow, tea and simple fare that he knows he won't burn for them.
The room soon fills with the familiar smell of tea and mingled aromas—the Keeper’s gentle scent of wildflowers and healing herbs, the faint sacred smoke of incense, and the metallic whisper of iron from him, and the fresh wounds from the Pale Flame as a testament that sacrifice endures beneath it all.
He glides through the space, kneeling on the cold stone floor beside the bed as if this is a normal routine, his attention never leaving the sleeping lamb in front of him, hair tousled in a charming disarray, woven by careless angels, face unguarded, stripped of the weight of the world, radiant in its vulnerability.
He clasped his hands together into his familiar praying position, elbows digging into the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the Keeper’s living warmth radiate against his skin. The horrors of his own dreams and what has transpired still linger; any hints of the beloved lamb living are enough to somehow satiate his fear for his loss, but it never leaves the shepherd, though.
It gnaws its way from the inside, making him tremble even at the thought of the absence of the Pale Messenger; the cavity he felt inside was so unbearable, he has willed it—quietly, fervently—that if the hour of parting arrived, let it claim him first. The soul shepherd lets out a shaky exhale to release the tension that stirs inside him, shoulders easing slightly as he begins his dawn prayer, which he has carried ever since he met the Keeper, woven from scripture and unshakable affection.
You find yourself standing in an endless dark hallway; walls of writhing shadow, the black ichor pooling at your feet, the air thick with gagging stench of Dissolution swirling around you in the air—a scene that you're very much familiar with from the events of corruption that has stalked your missions and ever present in your every unguarded rest, and it haunts you whenever and wherever it gets exhausting.
Until recently.
You can hear the same, distant voice accompanying you in your dreams, like a soft light flickering gently and unwavering, a small flame beckoning you forward. You move towards the burning light, only to be enveloped by warmth, kind, shimmering, familiar.
The voice gradually echoes louder, the dream fractures and you surface, half-awake from your slumber, then you hear the whispers continues, the gentle, barely touching of a fingertip moves on your forehead like writing down blessings with invisible ink, a low voice murmuring,
“...May the All-Father shield your flame and guide you out of your woes, let their flame burns steady and bright…”
The bishop continues to quietly pray over you—what he assumed your still sleeping figure, seeking and offering protection for you first at the mere break of dawn. You feel your heart full and warm all at once; his deep soothing voice washes over you like a warm blanket against the chill of fading night, and his featherlight touches lull you back to sleep.
The last thing you remembered was floating towards a portal of soft radiance, widening as you inched closer, and you stepped into a surreal, protoplasmic garden, the Holy River must have influenced your dreams from the prayers; vines of living lights coiled around you protectively like gentle guardians.
A quiet meadow land stretches beneath your feet of the All-Father’s domain, and there, a familiar scarred hand finds yours—rough with old sacrifice, yet infinitely tender, guiding you forward through the luminous peace.
At last, wakefulness claims you—a bit drowsy and heavy-limbed, the echoes of previous events of relentless tension and stress still clinging. Although you don't remember how much time has passed, the morning light has warmed the room, sufficient to declare the hour arrived.
You flutter your eyes open to see the gray light spill from the window beside you, and you glance over to the other side to see that Salvador is still there, steadfast sentinel, hands folded in prayer and head bowed low, his silver hair spilling forward like a shimmering veil of moonlight made mortal.
You can hear him breathing your name into the silence, over and over, like it's a mantra, a plea, a quiet anchor. Then one of his scarred hands drifts on the mattress, settling just close enough for him to feel your living warmth, as though that radiant proximity alone could tether through the storm.
He concludes his prayer with the softest exhale, voice reverent and fragile,
"Thank you, All-Father, for another morning where they still breathe beside me."
And only then does he rise, and his brows lift upwards in a quiet surprise, sensing you awake, the subtle change in your breathing perhaps, and a faint flush dusts the high planes of his cheeks, and a smile curves his lips, tender and unguarded.
"Good morrow, Pale Messenger,”
He begins, the words already laced with apology.
“I apologise—"
"No need for apologies,”
You interject gently.
“Good morrow, Salvador."
You responded kindly, you know him too well—the reflexive deference, the fear of overstepping boundaries or something alike, as though your prophesied role demands distance he can’t bear to keep.
You slowly rise to lean against the headboard, grunting a bit from the remnant of the strenuous battle not yet faded, and the shepherd is quick to offer himself, as pillar and shelter, one broad hand steady at the small of your back, another to aid you until you position yourself comfortably upright.
“Thank you,”
You murmur, then glance down at his knees pressed to the cold stone underneath, and back at him, one brow arching in a questioning manner.
“Have you been kneeling the entire time?”
Then pinning him down with a look, worry wrapped in affection, the bishop knows. He seemed to always be kneeling for you, his pride forsaken and weariness ignored, yet you mind.
You’re not an exalted idol, merely a person foretold by the All-Father, coincidence cloaked in destiny. Although you understand he shows his care and affection through his deeds, still. He seemed hesitant to reply at first, lips parting to deflect, but you reach out—lacing your fingers with his that was supporting you with quiet insistence, and you can hear his breath hitch at the contact.
Slowly, deliberately, he returns the clasp, every careful press of his fingers, you can even feel every scar he has, as if he’s trying to remember every part of you, mapping your presence, trace by trace, the act itself feels like worship rendered in skin and silence, devotion given form.
“I…Forgive me, Pale Messenger.”
His voice fractures on the title, soft like falling ash.
“I only wished to guard your dreams. I did not mean to wake you with my fears,”
His awareness drifts over your bruised radiance that seeps beneath from the collar of your loose shirt, the bandages peeking, his lips pursed into a thin line, and his brows knit in sorrow, his hand trembling, not from the cold, but at the thought of your previous battles that almost took you away, his fear of the Dissolution taking you first.
“...that you will disappear first, and I could not follow.”
The continued words emerge hushed.
“Each day I kneel and beseech the All-Father for your safety, yet I admit half of those prayers are selfish. I beg the Father not take you away from me. Not because the prophecy needs you, but because I do not know how to exist in a world where your radiance fades.”
His voice was so quiet, it nearly drowned beneath the faraway birdsong threading the morning air. A long silence followed, and you didn’t offer immediate words, only patient presence, waiting.
“I am no longer praying to be forgiven, but to keep me by your side, in whatever form the cycle allows me to. I am terrified of learning how to let go.”
He finishes, voice roughening like gravel underfoot and shaky, tears glittering down his cheeks, rare vulnerability from a man who has given flesh and sight to redemption.
He feels your hand gently carding through his hair that covers his face to tuck them behind his ears, warmth trails in the wake of your touch; he holds still, you can feel him waiting for you, starved for you, desperate beneath the calm. When your palm finally cups his cheek, he leans into it without missing a beat as if it’s built in him to gravitate towards you, always.
“Then don’t.”
You simply stated, and it startled him, he searches your face (or what it seemed to be like) like he’s unsure if he’s hearing you right, uncertain. You shift closer, until your forehead rests against his, and his breathing turns a bit heavier, uneven, with you so close, blush blooms across his cheeks. He reacts so boyishly and naively that it betrays the silver of his hair, cute.
“I’m not asking you to prepare for my absence,”
You started.
“ I’m asking you to believe I will stay, that my hand will seek yours, that every time you return, I will be here, waiting.”
“..I fear that makes me greedy, unworthy.”
He rasps, the admission strained, as if talking hurts him, as though each syllable costs blood. You retrieved your hand from his face, and he looks so lost when you do, like a hound abandoned mid-caress, be still my heart!—you internally yelled.
You moved on the bed, patting the space you made for him, an invitation, and he sits at the edge, as if getting closer to you is a sin, undeserving, despite the fact that he desperately craves it.
“Salvador,”
You called out gently, and he perked at that reflexively, his head lifted at his name leaving your lips, and you raised one of your arms (the less-bandaged one, though the pain still whispers beneath it). His awareness settles on the hidden wounds, the soul-sight tracing the muted flicker of your light, dimmed by cloth and scar, and his forehead creases deeper.
“Join me here. Please?”
You plead, voice soft and warm, laced with quiet command.
And it doesn’t take him even a second to crawl across the mattress with careful grace, and you pull him close until you can settle directly into his lap, straddling the cradle of his thighs. It surprises him greatly that you can feel him freezing and muscles locked in a stunned tension under you, breath stuttering.
Heat floods his face, blush climbing to the tip his ears, and confusion swirls in the tilt of his head, searching for an answer like it’s written on your face, and you smiled, gentle, certain—one hand sliding through silver silk, to the nape of his neck and he shivers at your warmth against the sensitive part of his body, then another cupping his face, thumb brushing away the tear tracks and he exhales shakily at that.
“I will be here, annoying you with my stubbornness, stealing your cloak whenever I can, lingering over every cup of tea you brew just to hear your voice fill the silence.”
You hold his unseen gaze, more fresh tears glistening like stars from the gray light of the morning, accentuating the silvers of his hair framing his face like a glowing halo surrounding him. Beautiful, achingly so.
You lean in until your noses brush, so close you can see the faint tremble in his lashes behind the coverings, his scent filling up your lungs, grounding and heady.
“You had me when you called for me, for my name, and meant it. I am yours.”
You whisper, lips almost grazing his, breaths mingling, his frame faintly quivering, and you stay like that—until his hands finally lift, hesitant at first, hovering, then settling around your waist firmly like it belonged there.
The corner of your lips tugged slightly, then it pressed against the bridge of his nose, then each closed eyelid, and his breath catches at every action you do, shuddering in response, surrender and wonder rippling through him like quiet waves.
“Keep me as long as you want,”
You murmur, voice soft, words become shared air by how close you two are.
“I’m not going anywhere. Ah, but I do need time for showering and stuff—”
The words barely leave you before his arms encircle you tight, fierce, unyielding, like he’s afraid the moment isn’t real, like you will slip away, like you might dissolve.
“Is this allowed? Am I allowed?”
He questions, fragile and raw with emotions spilling over the edges of composure he has clung to for so long, as if he still doesn’t believe what has transpired.
“Allowed,”
You lean in, whispering against his hair, breathing in his scent before continuing, near the shell of his ear, lips barely brushing there.
“And begged for.”
You continued, like it’s a vow.
He gasps breathlessly of your name—broken, reverent, as his ears turned blaze crimson, vivid against his pale skin, with a full body shiver races through him at your response.
Then you feel his cold lips find the pulse point of your neck, pressing them there firmly, contrasting the furnace heat he emitted through the thick fabric he adorned, as he draws you impossibly closer until no space remains between, as if he wants to mold your bodies together, as though he would melt into you entirely if he can—letting your warmth thaw the frosted fear carved into his worn out bones.
And before you feel the gentle tide of tiredness, accompanied by the shared heat, your ears catch the quietest murmur against your skin, spoken more to himself rather than to the world.
“Mine.”
The word settles like a seal, possessive and tender.