WHEN MORNING COMES

“...in taken heart, with taken hand

awaken part of love’s demand...”

Denyoh Nvwnle Gusya IV

2:2:2:5/5, III:IX

Jorn sat stooping on a chair in his bedroom, sunlight pouring cheerily through the windows of A’lara’s inn. Larin lay motionless in bed, her chest hardly caught in the rise and fall of shallow breath. Day had dawned three times since the unbinding, and the dust of the rubble had finally started to settle in the humid air. Jorn hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept, hadn’t explored the new breadth of his powers beyond striving to awaken Larin while languishing at her side.

Larin was adrift in a loving sea of white light. Gentle voices, tender and wise, spoke to her while she floated, the light healing her throughout. There was no pain, no fear, only goodness and wellness and love. The sagely voices filled her with peace, and no memory of her toils in the Hells reached her in that beautiful place. “Are you ready?”

“Of course,” she smiled, not knowing what to be ready for, but glad to do it nonetheless. She trusted these voices, and she knew that it would all be perfect.

“We are with you, always.” The knowledge bloomed in her heart, and she nodded, immersed in trust for the powerful love emanating from all around her.

Then a pang of darkness lanced across the sky, and she watched it with awe. A wince darted across her, and she shivered. The darkness rolled in, and she saw visions of fire and bloodshed. Turning away, she reached for the light, and she felt the comforting embrace of the voices once more. “Always,” they promised, and she closed her eyes in good faith, easing into her body like slipping into warm water at night.

Jorn was on his feet the moment she stirred, taking her hand and feeling the gentle flicker of fingertips in response. “Larin, can you hear me?” he breathed, his doffed gloves forgotten, streaks of relief and joy darting through their touching hands. “You’re safe.”

Mirth drifted out her nose on a chuckle, and she cleared her throat, drawing a deeper breath. Squirming a little, she tested the movements of her weakened body and eased back onto the pillow, a beatific smile on her face. “Always,” she whispered, and her eyes opened.

“How are you feeling?” Jorn ventured, his face awash in delight. She felt it through his hand, pulsing bright and fathomless.

“Fine.”

His smile trembled a little. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” she sighed, gazing past him to the arched ceiling.

Jorn wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when she awoke, but he found himself anxious and unfulfilled. “Do... you remember me?”

Bemused at the unease trickling into her through his hand, she drew her eyes back to him, and she gazed at his face. Her heart blossomed with gratitude, and she squeezed his fingers. “Thank you so much!” Her voice came hoarse and scratchy; she coughed, but it felt like dried paint. Jorn brought a glass of water to her lips, guiding her head as she gulped it down.

“Easy,” he soothed, brushing her hair back from her face. “Don’t choke.”

She coughed once more to test her throat and laughed softly. “Thank you.”

He set the glass down, his touch slipping away from her as a frown blew across his face. “Don’t thank me, Larin. Why would you ever thank me?”

“Because,” she smiled, eyes returning to his face, the warmth of recognition pleasant and comforting. “You brought me back.”

“I what?”

Larin paused to remember it more clearly. His face above her, looking down, and freedom engulfed her, joy and liberation like nothing she’d ever known. The face of her savior. The first sight of her new eyes. “You were there,” she nodded. “You were there when my eyes opened.”

“I’m... not sure what you mean, Larin.” Jorn eased himself to sit at the edge of her bed. “But I’m glad you’re awake.”

Immense gladness flowed through his hand into hers, and Larin’s heart swelled in response to his joy. “It’s nice here,” she agreed, her eyes widening at the wonderful sensation of a tear rolling across her temple.

Jorn closed his eyes, unnerved at the words she shared. “Larin, I... I’m so sorry for what happened–”

A lurking sense of darkness arose through Jorn’s hand, and her laugh cut him off. “You brought me back. It is all that matters.”

Slowly, Jorn nodded and set his jaw. “Do you remember anything?”

The question made her reflect. Breathtaking darts shot through her, and she shuddered at their banners. “Yes,” she allowed, following the dark threads of pain back into oblivion. “I remember.” He fell silent, holding her hand in quiet anguish while she poured through memory, her eyes closed. “But only what I want to.”

Puzzled, Jorn shifted to lean over her, eyes searching her face. “Do you want to remember, Larin?” She didn’t need his hand to feel the restraint and the hope in his voice.

Mischief tweaked one corner of her mouth. “Of course.” She had no fear of memory. Jorn sat with her, a beacon of loving hopefulness while she wound through her sense of time, reflecting the past in winces and grins. Finally, she sank back into her pillow, her hand slack. “...Rest,” she managed before slipping into sleep.