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It takes a while, but eventually Hermes slowly picks himself up, finding strength enough in his long, still-wavering arms to push his upper body off of her. His eyes blink open as well, and he takes in the sight of her beneath him--the mess he's made of her, her flushed skin and glistening sweat--and undeniably enjoys the view, regardless of the guilt he knows he should feel.
Should feel, but still doesn’t even now. Even as he levers himself up farther, from elbows to hands, leaning in for another soft, brief-but-lingering kiss before reluctantly, almost painfully pulling away, there is no shame, no guilt. Instead, his movement draws a low, mewling breath from her that very nearly has him descending on her again in a frenzy of desperate, reignited lust; the utterly lewd, wet noise his withdrawal makes is thrilling as well. And as he pushes back and finally gets a full view of the sticky, panting wreck he's made of her, lithe limbs spread out limply across the table...he finds that he can only feel a deep, dark sense of satisfaction in what he’s done, what he's caused her to become.
He wants her again, wants her here and now, wants to flip her over and pin down her wrists and take her hard from behind, wants to whisk her away to his bed and spend the rest of the night and half the coming morning exploring every ilm of her body with his mouth and hands. He’s never experienced this sort of desire before, a heady sensation that burns in his blood, singing through every muscle of his body, giving life itself, his whole wretched existence, a sharp, beautiful edge that glitters as dangerously and alluringly as the blade of a knife.
But as much as he wants her, Hermes knows that he’s too tired to have another go just now. His legs are unsteady beneath him, all of his joints vaguely watery-feeling, and he doesn’t quite dare let go of the table with both hands just yet. He’s almost every bit as much of a mess as she is, he realizes as he looks down at himself, feeling his sweat and their mingled fluids drying on his skin--and rather enjoying the sticky, dirty sensation, largely because it’s lingering proof of what they’d just done. His legs waver beneath him again, and Hermes knows that he needs to rest for a moment; reflexively grabbing his robe off the floor, he slips into it before sitting down heavily in one of the chairs at the end of the table, slumping down as much as the rigid back of the chair will allow and tipping his head back, eyes falling half closed as he takes a moment to recover.
Azem’s familiar--although that isn’t who or what she truly is, Hermes is well aware of that by now--seems to need to catch her breath as well, rolling onto her side in a bid to find a slightly more comfortable position on the hard wooden table. The way she’s shifted also allows her to meet his eyes, and she just... looks at him, her gaze sultry and satisfied and yet also so inexpressibly soft that it makes a lump rise in his throat, a welling up of some intense emotion that is too multifaceted for Hermes to label it with a proper name.
She recovers more quickly than he does--somehow he isn’t the least bit surprised by that--and he finds that he can’t look away from her, her still-graceful movements, as she slides off the table...and moves towards where he’s sitting. He follows her with his eyes, interest and curiosity mingling as she approaches...and kneels in front of him. Before he can draw breath to ask, she’s telling him, both with her words and her actions.
“If you’d like...I want to return the favor of what you did for me before,” she murmurs, her eyes briefly flicking back to the side, towards the workstation with the empty birdcage, where he’d first touched her, where he’d all but worshipped her with his hands and mouth.
The idea of her doing the same to him, the thought of those delicate hands and those perfect lips and that sweet mouth wrapped around him sends a flash of heat through his whole body, and Hermes has to swallow hard before nodding eagerly, though his voice catches slightly in his throat when he speaks, quiet and already strained.
“Yes, of—of course. By all means, I-”
There, his throat closes up entirely, because she’s reached out to rest her hands on his thighs, the heat of her skin wonderful even through the fabric of his robe, which he suddenly, immediately regrets donning again. It’s just something else in the way, and he starts to straighten, his hands going to the collar to start tugging it off--when her hands clench into fists, fingers grasping at the long drape of fabric, twisting into it and holding fast.
“No...if you don’t mind...leave it on?”
It’s a request, a suggestion, that makes Hermes give a delighted shudder, because there’s an allure to having her handle him through his robes, watching her push and pull them aside to get at what she wants, to lay him bare before her. She does, but she takes her time with it, touching and teasing him through the material first, running her fingers along the insides of his thighs, smoothing her hands across the flat planes of his stomach, tracing his sharp hip bones, gently cupping and palming him until he’s left an embarrassingly obvious wet spot on the dark fabric. At that point she seems to take pity on him, letting her hands slip up beneath the hem of his robes, but even then, she’s frustratingly unhurried, seemingly content to explore his ankles, calves, knees, and thighs ilm by maddening ilm.
“Please,” he finally says when she takes to pressing lingering open-mouthed kisses high along the inside of his thighs, so close to where he wants her and yet so far, his voice a fragment of a broken whimper, a pair of tears already tracing their glistening paths down his cheeks. “Please, I can’t stand-”
He swallows the rest of whatever he’d been intending to say along with a sharp gasp as she finally reaches for him, wrapping her hand around his already-hard cock. With an impatient growl, she shoves the long folds of his robe up around and over his hips, leaving him entirely bare to her sight. She takes a long moment to study him appreciatively, seemingly unconcerned about the tacky feel of his skin or the other lingering traces of their previous lovemaking. Before long, she’s shuffled in even closer and is bowing her head over him, making something of a show of tracing his veins with her tongue before taking him into her mouth. The press and swipe of her tongue across the swollen, sensitive head of his cock has him gasping and hissing largely unintelligible words, a mingling of curses and praises that are far too intertwined to fully separate one from the other. Time blurs for him as she continues to go down on him, using her own drool as a lubricant, letting her hand take care of whatever her mouth can’t handle. Hermes has to fight the urge to bury his fingers in her soft hair, to shove her head farther down on him, to force her to bob up and down faster, harder; instead, he curls his fingers around the bottom edge of the chair and tips his head back, though he can’t fully look away from her even now, no matter how intense the feeling of building pressure is. She is nothing short of captivating, those lovely eyes glancing up to meet his and hold his gaze every so often before she lets them ease closed, as if she’s savoring the taste and feel of him, as if she’s enjoying this every bit as much as he is. Then, when his chest is heaving and his breath is coming in unsteady, nearly pained gasps and he’s so close that he can almost taste it--she abruptly pulls off of him with a wet pop, turning sharp, inquisitive eyes up to meet his hazy gaze. A gurgle of protest gets caught in his throat, and it’s just as well because she wants him to hear what she’s saying.
“Do you want to finish in my mouth, or...would you rather be inside me again when you come?”
It’s such a blunt way of asking, a filthy question that falls from those damp, lovely lips so matter-of-factly, but Hermes is so far gone that anything more subtle would doubtless have failed to process. Even so, all he can do is give a low, wordless whine and reach for himself with a fumbling hand, desperate to finish and uncaring about the details.
She gives a quiet laugh at that, her touch gentle as she pulls his hand away, replacing it with her own, with her warm, perfect mouth, and he doesn’t last much longer after that. For a few moments, pleasure and the pressure of her mouth and hand continuing to steadily milk him are the only sensations that Hermes can feel; when he opens his eyes, he can only watch through sweaty bangs as she almost primly cleans him up with both her tongue and the bottom edge of his robes, and he thoroughly enjoys every moment of it.
Even once she’s done, she doesn't move away immediately. She just sits there a moment, leaning the side of her head against the inside of one of his thighs, her soft cheek pressed against sensitive skin, the warmth of her breath vaguely ticklish as she gazes up at him, smiling slightly as she watches him struggle to pull himself back together with interest and at least mild satisfaction. She gives him a while to recover, then once his breathing has evened out, she stands, easily pushing herself back to her feet despite how long she’s been crouched down there on the floor.
Hermes feels a shockingly, distressingly sharp pang at the idea of watching her leave now, or even just put too much distance between them.
But that isn’t what she does at all. Instead, she moves closer, slipping into his lap--although not before helping him out of his robe, and also finally stripping off her open tunic and her camise, leaving both of them completely and utterly bare to each other. She is beautiful, he thinks, a truly exquisite specimen of womanhood, a pleasing mix of lean muscle and eye-catching curves, with hips that are slim and yet still wide enough to hold fecund promise and breasts that are of a decently generous size, though not massive or in any way out of proportion. Her skin is soft and very nearly seems to glow now, but it is in no way perfect and unmarred; instead, he can see a wealth of pale scars covering her body, most small and unremarkable, though there’s a few more sizeable ones that give him pause, even as he also wants to reach out and trace them with his fingers, his mouth, his tongue.
But scars or not, she’s still the most stunning, alluring thing he’s ever seen in his life.
His hands come up to frame her waist, steadying her as she settles herself in his lap, and it seems that she also had the idea of wanting to explore his body, because she covers his neck, shoulders, and chest with slow, patient kisses. He also can’t ignore the fact that, situated as she is, with her legs snuggly clamped around his waist, her wet heat is pressed against his still-soft cock, but while he doesn’t doubt that it was intentional, she doesn’t rush him, content to simply kiss him, to press herself close against him while he rests, allowing him ample time to recover before asking for anything more. Only once his grip on her tightens, and he dips his head towards her to capture her lips with his own, does she move against him at all, tentative and testing. When they break away, coming up for air, she meets his eyes and says in a rough murmur, “Gods …I want you again, Hermes, if you’re up for it-”
He answers her with another kiss, this one significantly harder than the last, and by the end of it, he’s chuckling deep in his chest, dark and weary. The smile he gives her when he pulls back to answer her matches, and he pauses to press a lingering kiss to her jaw first, half-whispering the words against skin and bone: “One way or another, I’m definitely going to have you again.”
Much as Hermes wants her, as his blood fairly burns for her, his already-fatigued body is somewhat slower to respond than he’d like, but that simply forces them to go more slowly, allowing them to take their time more than they had before. Their kisses become less desperate and hurried, more lingering and exploratory; his hands have time to trace out her curves and linger over the most obvious of her scars, and her lips and teeth leave behind gently-applied bruises that he glories in the feel of. One of her hands drops lower, encouraging his body to ready itself for her once again, and before long, she’s satisfied that he’s hard enough, shifting in his lap to guide him in, taking him to the hilt in one slow, smooth slide...and then simply sitting there for a long moment as she presses equally slow, lingering kisses to his jawbone.
Because this time, she’s the one on top, the one in control, and while Hermes balks slightly at that loss of dominance, at the same time, there’s a delicious edge to the very thought of being at her mercy, of simply sitting back and letting her do whatever she wants to him. It’s certainly a breathtaking view, watching her fuck herself on his cock, feeling the smooth strain of her muscles as she moves over and against him, hearing her breath coming hard and heavy in his ears. For a time, he simply submits, letting her do most of the work, content to do nothing but steady her balance and give an occasional roll of his hips to meet her own. But as the pleasure and tension steadily builds between them, he finds himself grasping at her hips harder, more desperately--and when he can’t stand the agonizingly slow, steady pace she’s destroying him with, he finally challenges her for control.
Their considerable size difference, and thus the simple fact that he can lift her whole tiny body with minimal effort even now, when his muscles are nearly exhausted from everything else he’s asked of them tonight, gives him what is perhaps an unfair advantage, but one that Hermes makes use of nonetheless. Taking hold of her firmly, he grits his teeth and lifts her off of himself all but completely, before practically slamming her back down onto his cock. It’s rough and nearly violent, similar to how things had gone before when he’d had her pinned to the table, though this angle lets him sink into her even deeper; she doesn’t fight him, just looses a breathless cry, head tipping back and spine arching in ecstasy, and he gives a strangled, half-sobbed groan of his own. She doesn’t fight to regain dominance, not really, seemingly satisfied to allow him to take control and use her as he will, clutching at his shoulders, short nails digging in hard as he continues to pick her up and slam her back down onto him relentlessly; when he starts to pair that with an upwards thrust of his hips, her cries grow louder as he all but hurls her over that edge--and she writhes and starts to struggle desperately when he doesn’t relent in the slightest, continuing to pound her down onto him despite how intensely oversensitive she feels in the midst of her climax, each sharp snap of his hips drawing gasping pleas from her as he seeks to push her over yet again, before she’s fully come down from the previous high. Both her tremulous cries and wavering, unsteady fists striking at his broad chest do nothing to turn Hermes aside from his intended path of all but ruining her, until finally his own control slips, and he sheathes himself deeply in her one last time before letting himself go, burying his face against her shoulder with a shuddering whimper as the world goes stark white and waves of pleasure wash over them both.
She clings to him tightly, so much so that it almost hurts, her teeth finding his shoulder as she bites down hard enough that he’s nearly certain that she must have broken the skin this time; the pain is briefly startling, but in the midst of the whirling euphoria that has encompassed him, Hermes can only revel in it, welcome it, and smile even wider through the unbroken, inexorable fall of his tears. Every tiny movement sends a jittering jolt through him as they both clutch at each other, fighting to catch their breath and both utterly unwilling to let go, to move away from each other even slightly, need and lust and longing and perhaps even deeper feelings binding them together inseparably from this moment on.
Hermes finds that at first his thoughts are a muddled whirl, but by the time his body has stopped shaking and his heartbeat has steadied once again, his fingers gently caressing the smooth skin of her back and sides as she presses gentle kisses to his collarbone, two things have come clear. She means everything to him, and yet he still knows so little about her, about her plans and intentions.
“When are you leaving?” The quiet, terrible question suddenly tears itself out of him unbidden, followed by another, its near match: “How long can you stay?” His voice is hoarse and muted, and he sounds so utterly foolish, needy and grasping, of that he’s well aware, but Hermes doesn’t care. Any sense of pride he has is worth far less than having the answers to those two heart-wrenching questions.
She hesitates, the bony ridge of her nose pressing hard against his collarbone as she considers her answer, then quietly admits, “...I don’t know. But...I have something important that I need to do back where I came from.” He feels her draw in a deep, slightly unsteady breath, followed by the whisper of warm air over his skin as she releases it. “After that’s settled...perhaps I can come back.”
Perhaps. She isn’t certain, and she’s being honest about that fact, but even so, it sends a sharp pang through him, a flash of...alarm, perhaps? Because the truth of the matter is, this experiment has been a resounding success. Hermes feels worlds better now after working out his darker emotions this way, after submitting to the warm embrace of someone who truly understands him.
He feels so much less empty. Like the yawning pit of dread inside of him has been banished, at least temporarily.
Normally, at least of late, nearly all Hermes can think about is what Meteion and her sisters might find out among the stars, the answers he seeks and so dearly longs for. But now...right now, he is stunningly content. Even--dare he think it?-- happy. The warmth he feels when he looks at her, when she smiles at him...it doesn’t fix everything that’s so wrong with this world, it doesn’t solve anything. And yet, when those lovely eyes meet his own, his heart feels somehow stronger, as if she can bolster his willpower with her very presence.
They are still joined together, still pressed intimately close, and right now Hermes can only think about how right it feels. He wants to be with her--maybe not forever, because that would be vanity and selfishness besides, they must eventually make way for new lives, once they have done all the good that they can for the future of the star...but to think that this might be the only night they have together is nearly unbearable. Wherever she’s come from, whatever it is that needs doing...knowing that she’ll leave him behind for those things is enough to make him feel jealousy, of a sort.
Even more than just wanting...he needs her. Having her in his arms, or even simply beside him, even that would be enough...it grounds him, steadies him. The emotions that he’d found so uncontrollable are still thus, and yet now... now, he feels as if he has some sort of focus, a purpose, a goal:
To be with her. To find a way to keep her by his side.
No one would question it, surely. As Chief Overseer of Elpis, he is surrounded by all sorts of unusual lifeforms. Of late, he has had Meteion trailing after him as a constant companion; what should it matter if he has two curious-looking beings with him rather than simply the one?
“...Stay. Stay here with me.”
He’s spoken the words aloud before he realizes it, and he draws in a sharp breath, instantly aware of what he’s said, albeit too late to stop himself or take the words back. He braces himself for her reaction, her rejection, but he finds instead that she’s simply looking up at him with an expression that he can’t completely read, though there is sadness and something of longing in her gaze.
“I can’t,” she says at last, quietly, scarcely above a whisper, but steel at its core for all its softness. “I have to go back. I told you, there’s something I have to do, and after that, I don’t know if I’ll be able to come back-”
She flinches suddenly, looking down to find that his grip on her hips has gone tight, his hands white-knuckled as they hold her in place. She feels a thrill of excitement mingled with a flicker of concern, not quite fear, as she looks back up to meet his gaze--which is far harder and more determined than she’s seen him look thus far.
“...Tell me the truth, then. About where you’re from. About who you are, if you are not Azem’s familiar...and from what you have said, I know you are not, that you cannot be, regardless of your previous claims to be so.”
She hesitates, her gaze sliding downwards to settle vaguely on his throat as she considers it, and he gives her hips another squeeze, fingertips digging into her not quite painfully. Perhaps now is also a time when he should be gentle, when he shouldn’t press her for answers...and yet, if not now, Hermes knows that he is unlikely to ever receive them, and such a thing is not only unthinkable, it’s outright unacceptable.
“After all that we have shared here tonight, can you truly believe that I am not deserving of your honesty in this? That I am not deserving of your trust?”
With visible reluctance, she drags her eyes back up to meet his, regarding him for a long space of silence before her shoulders sag ever so slightly, a sigh leaving her as she gives a single tiny nod.
“...All right, I’ll tell you. But I’m not sure you’re going to believe me.” She seems about to add something after that, but plainly thinks better of it and instead closes her mouth firmly. Her hands come up to grasp pointedly at his wrists as she says something else instead. “We should probably clean up and get dressed first. It’s a long story...”
Head bowed and eyes averted, Hermes continues to grip at her hips for a telling moment; then he relaxes his grasp, letting her move away from him, her solid warmth slipping out of his hands with only the slightest awkward wobble as she finally pulls herself off of him, the wet noise it makes and her quiet gasp both loud in the quiet of this isolated room. They’ve left quite a mess behind, but Hermes can’t bring himself to care; for now, he’s still the Chief Overseer of Elpis, and though he doesn’t often use (or abuse) his power this way, he can send someone over here tomorrow to clean up after them.
He watches in silence as she gathers her clothes, dressing herself enough to preserve her basic modesty, though he notes that she doesn’t put on her smallclothes, likely not wanting to get them dirty. She tosses his robe his way with a bright smirk, and he slips it over his head mechanically, his thoughts far away from the movement of his body even as he stands to gather up the rest of his clothes, though he also doesn’t put anything else on. Much as he likes the feel of being smeared with their mingled fluids, he knows that he’ll need to bathe before he sleeps--or at the very least, before he appears before Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus on the morrow. Showing up smelling of sweat and sex would certainly raise a few eyebrows...not that he doesn’t do that already.
Once they’re both clothed, he holds out a hand towards her, palm upward, and offers her a tentative smile.
“Let us retire to my rooms. We can do a more thorough job of cleaning ourselves there...and it will give us the necessary privacy for our talk.”
Hesitant as he’d initially been to invite her there, it isn’t as though Hermes needs to be worried about the temptation it would present him any longer. He’s already given in, already fully accepted it, they both had; and if something else should happen between them after she shared her whole story, the whole truth with him...well then, that’s certainly all right with Hermes. In fact, he more than halfway hopes that it will, that he’ll get the chance to do as he’d wished, to lay her out beneath him yet again in the comfort of his bed and map out each of those scars, to learn her body little by little, with the slow, careful patience of a true researcher.
She looks at his offered hand, then up into his face, and then with a smile that he can’t fully read, she places her hand in his.
Late as it is, they have little trouble making it to Hermes’ rooms without being seen, much less running into anyone. Once there, as promised, he turns over his bathroom to her, though there’s a not-so-small part of him that wants to share that experience as well, that of bathing with a lover, getting clean together before giving in and getting dirty together all over again. Tired as he is, the idea still holds more than a little allure, but he sets it firmly aside for now; even more than feeling her come apart around him yet again, he wants--needs--answers.
He spends the time idly making tea, then takes his turn making his ablutions. And then, once they’re both clean and clothed and settled at the small table in his quarters, sipping at lukewarm tea, she haltingly, hesitantly tells him about the coming Final Days. Actually, there seem to be parts omitted from the story she spins out for him, though since he has no concept of her tale as a whole, he can’t be certain what pieces are missing, if any truly are. In the end, all that he can in any way accept or understand...is that she suspects that both Meteion and he himself have something to do with the great calamity that’s afflicting her world, in her time, far in the unknown future. She doesn’t say as much outright, and neither does she say how, and yet...
“...You’ve told this story to someone else already, haven’t you?” is the first quiet, thoughtful question he poses after she falls silent at long last.
Swallowing hard, she nods. “Yes. That’s why I’m here at all: to find a way to save my world.”
Hermes nods, seemingly accepting it, though it is rather hard to believe, and he tells her as much. “...And yet…it does ring true, and make a certain sort of sense besides. To know that our society will meet its end, that it is destined for such a spectacular downfall...”
...And that I will be at its root, an undeniable catalyst, perhaps even the primary source of it. He doesn’t say that aloud, and certainly doesn’t let any trace of it show on his face, but there’s a dark, thrilling sort of satisfaction in that knowledge, a sick sort of glee at being the originator of such a fitting, all too deserved end. He should be horrified at the very idea, desperate to do anything to prevent that terrible calamity, to keep himself from inciting the ruin of all that his people, his colleagues and fellow researchers, have strived so hard to build for all these years.
And yet, he does not. Not truly or deeply, the way he senses that he likely should, that he would if he were not so agonizingly strange, so unlike and discordantly out of tune with the rest of mankind.
Perhaps his only regret is that whatever he is to do in the future, whatever actions he takes that bring about the collapse of his peoples’ twisted society, it is also still causing trouble for her.
...But then again, if it wasn’t, she never would have journeyed here at all in the first place, he reminds himself. He never would have met her, never would have known that she exists, never would have found any sort of peace for himself, however fleeting. He puts a mental pin in that thought, as something he’ll come back to later, and instead smiles across the table at the remarkable woman before him.
“I thank you for your honesty. You have given me much to think about...but as we have both said before, it is quite late. Little as I wish to send you away, we are both doubtless sorely in need of rest.”
She gives a stalwart nod of agreement, finishing her tea before pushing to her feet and heading for the door, a murmured good night, Hermes, on her lips and a small, soft smile to match, a memory that he will treasure for the rest of his days. He doesn’t miss the way her eyes briefly linger on his neatly-made bed in one corner of the room as she crosses the room, but she doesn’t ask to stay, nor does he offer; his body is weary beyond words, leaving him marveling once again at her strength and resilience, and in any case, he has far too much on his mind at the moment to manage that precipitous slide into thoughtless lust yet again. However, as her hand comes to rest on the door, he calls after her quietly:
“...I do dearly hope that, after you have found the answers you seek, and saved your world in the future, you will find your way back.”
To me, he adds silently, though he doesn’t quite dare speak it aloud.
Judging by the smile she turns over her shoulder at him, equal parts warmth and sadness, she hears those two words clearly, even though he hadn’t given voice to them. She catches his eyes with hers yet again, simply gazing at him for a long moment; then with a firm, determined nod of agreement, she pushes through the door and vanishes out into the corridors beyond.
Even as the door falls closed behind her, his thoughts have already turned dark once again, returning to that mental pin he’d placed before and letting his mind wander down the dark paths that spin themselves out before him.
Implausible as it all sounds, supposing that he is involved in the advent of these ‘Final Days’...Hermes decides then and there that he’s not going to turn aside from whatever that might mean, whatever they might require to come about.
To make certain that his callous, unfeeling society gets what it so richly deserves...and also, perhaps even more importantly, to make certain that she exists. Even if they could never truly be together, even if the Elpis flowers might have sensed only lust from her and no deeper feelings, even if she does not love him in return...still, the simple fact of her brilliant, incredible existence will be enough for Hermes.
I must do this. Regardless of the cost, all the lives lost, all the souls torn asunder...even so, I will see that it happens. I will do everything in my power to make certain that you...my sole true friend, my love, the only one who truly understands me...will come to be.
Yes...this is something well worth ending the world over, Hermes thinks to himself with a faint, wry smile as he makes his way across the room and settles in on his bed. Just as he had urged the escaped Lykaon earlier that very day, he will not serve the star or any purpose save his own. Not any longer. He has hate enough for his fellow man to follow his chosen course, of that he has grown coldly certain. And what is hate but a broken mirror of love? As damaged as he is already, as he must be...it only makes sense that his feelings of love would be twisted as well, doesn’t it. That he would be willing to go to such lengths for her, that he would be willing to doom himself and the entire star just to ensure that this ‘Sundering’ would happen, to make certain she would exist at all...yes. He cannot say whether such a thing is right, but it is his will, and unlike the thoughtless and unfeeling behavior of his peers, it is something he can accept.
And perhaps...perhaps if she does save her world, in her time, she might yet find her way back to him, for a short while at least. They cannot be together overlong--the choice he’s already settled on will ensure that--but if it means that he might but catch a mere glimpse of her face once again...even that would be enough. Truly Hermes wants so much more, to touch her again, to hold her in his arms and kiss her breathless, to taste her and take his time learning every ilm of her with his eyes and hands and mouth, to spend peaceful days walking side by side, and long unhurried nights tangled together in his bed. (...Perhaps even to learn if a sundered soul might bear fruit from seed sown by one unsundered...indeed, the mental image of her, round and heavy with his child, is more than a little alluring...) But even simply seeing her once more after all is said and done, having that smile so full of sunlight that it banishes even the worst of his shadows turned his way once again, hearing her call out his name in friendly greeting...
For that, he would bring about the Final Days a hundred times over.
And should his resolve ever waver, or should any seek to stop him...there is always Kairos and its memory-altering capabilities. It’s a last resort, but he is not above using it, if need be.
Not that he thinks he’ll need to, at least not on himself. Not now that he’s found his answer, his purpose: the one person he truly wants to protect, consequences be damned.