somewhatclear

It would be much easier to just let themselves go. Just let the fire snuff itself out, let the cold creep up their legs and arms and spine, close their eyes. Ignore the snares and the traps they painstakingly set in the woods, ignore the bread stalls and the taverns they met as they walk through the cities. But Death wouldn’t help them.
Do not try to kill yourself, Sazin had warned Arun, as he played with the frying edges of the empty sleeve rolled up to his bicep to show off the terrible rotten remains of his arm, eyes flickering towards a scuffed spot on the floor. It only makes things worse. Arun didn’t for details, but it had scared the suicidal tendencies right out of them.
So they kept themselves warm. They kept themselves fed. They kept wandering libraries and schools and obscure antique bookshops looking for something, anything that could help.
*
Night. They’re walking on a mirror—no, it’s a lake. The water is so still and smooth it perfectly replicates the night sky above them. The constellations there aren’t familiar, but Arun keeps walking. Liquid ripples gently propagate from under their boots at every step, barely moving the surface. It’s quiet. Then something suddenly makes a cracking noise, like black ice. The mirror is gone, open wounds weeping darkness all over. Arun runs. The water swallows them. They scream but they make no sound as the darkness envelops them. It doesn’t feel like water—it’s just void. When they try to look up, the sky above them is far away and crumpled like a ruined star map. They’re falling. Behind them, Him. Terrible terror overwhelms Arun, freezing their veins and petrifying their limbs. You cannot run, the void rumbles, like the deep, shuddering pulse of something that won’t die. You cannot run.
Arun wakes up screaming.
They’re drenched in sweat, veil and hair and fabric sticking to their skin, heart pounding in their chest. They still cannot move, the paralysis from the dream clinging to reality. The night sky above fills them with dread for a brief moment, their disoriented mind panicking with the thought of being stuck in some other, unknown universe—but only the boundless steppe surrounds them, open and still enshrouded in fog and darkness, a slight suggestion of dawn far away on the horizon, and the embers of fire next to their feet.
They didn’t mean to fall asleep—they rarely do, these days. Bad things happen when they fall asleep, so they don’t. But sometimes they don’t have a choice, like tonight, and when they come back to they feel disoriented and weak, rather than rested and replenished.
“Fuck,” Arun murmurs, sitting up. Something heavy falls from their lap—the Book of Shadows. They must have dozed off while they were leafing through it, even though they don’t really recollect doing so. They flip through the last page, touching the corners with trembling hands—but there’s no new glyph, no new command. Arun breathes out. A drop of black ichor falls from somewhere onto the pristine parchment.
“Fuck!” they repeat, startled, bringing a hand to their nose.
It comes away black with rot and greasy with face paint. A wetness clings to their fingers, viscous and uncanny, warm like blood. The paralyzing fear from before floods them again; at least their ears and eyes are dry when they check them, but it doesn’t stop Arun from picturing their brain melting into rotten sludge, despite Sazin’s assurance that they were probably gonna be fine for a while, as long as they were leaking from just one hole and their fingers weren’t falling off. But it’s too dark to tell if the shadows on their fingers are stains or actual discoloration. Arun’s coral-bright skin look gray in the almost absolute darkness—but nothing hurts when they flex their joints. It will have to be enough.
They get on their feet and start breaking camp with a sigh.
*
The Mochdre Mountains are stuff of the legend, except they’re not, really. They’re supposed to be a magical ridge in the middle of nowhere that appears only a few times a year, when the edges of the Universes grow near and blur together. You can walk towards them for miles and never see them, until you get right under their slopes and they’re suddenly there, enormous and terrifying, looming over you.
The steppe is as flat as ever, but greener than before, a few smatterings of trees and vegetation here and there, a stream in the distance, and the blurry hillsides that looks simultaneously too close and too far.
Arun doesn’t quite understand how it works, but they read some scientific texts explaining that it’s actually some kind of optical illusion—something about the atmosphere being denser, reflecting the color of the sky and the surrounding steppe in a strange mirror-like way; they also read some less scientific texts explaining that it’s because a goddess lives there, and nobody is meant to meet a goddess, especially Death herself, before their time.
Been there, done that, Arun had thought. Death might refuse to help them, but they might as well ask.
Unfortunately, while used to travel by themselves, Arun overestimated their ability to survive in the wilderness. They don’t know how to hunt, so they brought enough food to last them a long while; they aren’t good at picking spots to make camp, so they rarely stopped, banking on the fact that they don’t need to sleep; but they didn’t think about the quiet. Arun expected they would’ve been on edge all the time, looking out for unfamiliar predators; but the steppe is silent as a tomb, whatever danger lurking below the grass refusing to make itself known—leaving Arun’s mind to turn on itself, and driving them insane.
They shouldn’t have gone alone. They tried to convince Sazin to come, but the other warlock had shrugged and said that it wasn’t worth it. He was happy enough with the life he was living, hiding like a rat in the walls, only a blessed amulet working as a shield to stave off the worst of His influence. They both knew He was going to find him, eventually, but they didn’t talk about it. They both knew that when Arun left it would’ve been the last time they saw each other, very likely. It was a matter of time, and the reason Arun couldn’t stay.
The wind blowing through the foliage whispers words of doubt and fear and regret. Arun genuinely can’t tell how long they’d been walking anymore; it could’ve been days, it could’ve been weeks, it could’ve been months. They aren’t following a marked path, because there are none, and they don’t even know if they are going in the right direction. It would be so much easier to find someplace to curl up, waiting for the inevitable.
They keep hiking, instead. It’s a surprisingly warm and humid day, despite the fact that it isn’t summer yet, and their tunic clings uncomfortably to their body at every step. They’re getting closer to the silvery shimmer of the creek; they don’t know how close they are to the mountains, there’s nothing else to focus on, so Arun fixates on the shine and walks.
*
The sun is high up in the sky and smoldering, when they finally reach the water. The creek is narrow and shallow enough that they could attempt to cross right away, but fatigue is pulling at Arun’s bones and they don’t want to risk the current to drag them down. They follow the stream to the closest bend, where the water turns mellow and even shallower; large bushes and trees line the bank, offering a little shadow and respite from the heat.
Arun sighs and takes their hat and veil off. The air below the canopy of trees feels cool and refreshing against their overheated skin; soon they’re dropping their pack to the floor, pulling off their boots and their outer layers, keeping only the innermost shift on, and wading in the freezing water. They gasp at the temperature, but it’s no matter—cold is good, cold stops the rot, cold makes focus.
They rub the sweat off their limbs and wherever they can reach, splashing their face to get rid of the ghost feeling of crusty ichor and matted facepaint. It’s so fucking cold—but it’s good, it makes them more lucid. The hike to the mountains will warm them up again, anyway—
When they look up from the water, an orc with a bow is staring at them from behind a tree.
Arun startles, and then freezes. Their face is naked. Their head is naked. Their body is—more naked than they’re comfortable with. Normally, they would try and change shape before meeting a stranger, but it’s too late now, and the cold from the water makes it difficult to call forth the Darkness, but maybe—
The orc jumps out of his cover, hands raised in the universal gesture for I’m not going to reach for my weapon and make you into a tiefling-shaped pincushion. “I’m so sorry! This isn’t—I swear I wasn’t—” he babbles, and then sighs. “Sweet Maid and all her flower crowns, there isn’t an easy way to make it look like I wasn’t spying on you, is it?”
Heart still pounding in their chest, Arun swallows and says nothing.
The orc—half-orc, actually, now that Arun can see him more clearly— grins, sheepish. “I didn’t mean to scare you! Muffin smelled something and ran into the trees, and I followed him, and—we didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Who is Muffin?”
The half-orc whistles. The round, furry shape of a young boar shoots out of the bushes right next to the tree, and the half-orc’s grin widens as he picks it up like a child would with a beloved kitten. “This is Muffin! He’s my little helper! Did you know that boars have an excellent sense of smell, even better than dogs’? Everyone at the village said it was a weird choice, but I think it’s a perfect choice. Especially since I keep getting stuck with scouting missions,” he huffs. “I’m Niv, by the way.”
Arun nods, and lifts themselves out of the water, trying not to be too self-conscious of the way the drenched shift sticks to their skin. They see Niv’s eyes flicker to their tail, at their chest and at the split in the fabric at their sides, before flushing a deep green and looking away.
“Uh, sorry for the question but as I mentioned—I’m on a scouting mission. My village is nearby and my job is to keep an eye on the surrounding area, so—” Niv clears his voice and puts Muffin back onto the ground, where he happily starts to sniff the dirt. “I need to know who you are and what intentions you have.”
Climbing back onto the river’s bank, Arun shoots a glance at Niv. He looks young, but maybe the friendly attitude is more a way to let his guard drop than a show of naiveté; he’s tall and broad, easily a couple heads taller than Arun themselves, and wouldn’t have any difficulty in squashing them like a flat-bread. If push came to shove, Arun would have to summon the Darkness to have a chance against him—though they can’t sense any hostility from him, despite his last words.
“I’m looking for the Mochdre Mountains,” Arun says carefully, trying to squeeze as much water as possible from their shift without taking it off.
Niv frowns. “I don’t even think anyone is supposed to know about the Mochdre mountains, let alone looking for them, unless—” His eyes move to the black robe Arun is trying to fit over the wet shift, and something about it makes his eyes widen and his spine straighten. “Oh! Of course you would know about them. I’m sorry, nobody ever tells me anything— Is Shivann expecting you?”
Arun doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but they recognize the opening for what it is. “No, I don’t think so.” They wrap the belt around their waist, and fix their veil and their hat over their somewhat tangled hair, careful to hide the horns under the brim.
“The ways of the Spouse are often obscure.” Niv nods sagely, suddenly solemn. “Uh, tell me I didn’t interrupt some kind of uh, sacred ablution or something, please. Grandfather would be extremely disappointed if I got myself cursed by the Spouse—and my Da too. He’s very devout to the Mother, you see—“
“Ah—no,” Arun reassures him, feeling awkward. “Just cooling down a little.”
“I imagine it gets pretty hot under all those black robes! I don’t know how you stand it. Uh, sorry if it’s inappropriate. I never met another Companion before—other than Shivann, I mean, and she’s like a big sister to me—” Niv keeps rambling, while Arun’s mind works quickly.
They never heard of Companions and they don’t know what Niv saw in Arun to identify them as one, but—the Spouse is just another name people have been calling Death in the ancient texts. They hoped they weren’t making a mistake but—maybe this Shivann person was actually going to help them? Maybe it wasn’t going to be another failure, this time?
*
Niv agrees to escort Arun to his village, to their relief. When they hear that it’s another three days hike (“—four, more likely. No offense, but I’m afraid your stride doesn’t cover as much ground as mine… It’s all good! My Da is as short as you and he always says steady pace wins the race—”) they are filled with dread—but it turns out that it’s not so bad, when you have someone to walk with.
The half-orc is noisy and chatty, and the shadows change more quickly when his voice flows around them. He fills the deafening silence with stories about his village (“—I lived with my Da, before, and I had never seen an orc other than my Mom, but this village— it’s mostly orcs! Can you believe it? So many orcs—”), about his weird family (“—yeah, I’m half human, but I never really met the guy so. My Da is my Da, you know? He’s a dwarf and he’s the coolest person I know—”) and about Muffin (“—isn’t he the cutest thing you’ve ever seen? Sometimes he makes these little snores when he sleeps, I wish I could bottle them and listen to them when I feel down because they always cheer me up—”); it should be annoying as fuck, but Arun finds themselves appreciating it. They can’t think about what is waiting for them at the village, if they’re engrossed in Niv’s tales.
When they stop to make camp the first evening, the ranger notices Arun doesn’t own a bedroll.
“Where do you sleep?” he wonders, bewildered, as he lies down on his own. Muffin immediately runs to his side, curling up next to his hip like a dog would.
“I don’t need to sleep,” Arun says with a shrug, settling near the fire with their legs tucked under their chin, and their hands inside their sleeves. “It’s one of my uh, divine blessings.”
“What do you do all night?”
Arun hesitates. They would be reviewing the notes they took inside their Book of Shadows for clues they missed or overlooked, normally, but pulling such an arcane item out in front of Niv made them uneasy for some reason. It wasn’t distrust, they were surprised to realize; it was almost like a fear of being judged—not that they cared what Niv thought of them. “I read, I guess. Or I study.”
“Pray?”
Arun thinks about the void. Pray not to be found. “Sure.”
Niv sleeps soundly all night, not at all worried to be unconscious in the presence of a stranger, in the middle of the wildness. Arun spends half the time being anxious on his behalf, and the other half being a little offended at not being taken seriously as a threat.
*
The next day is very similar to the previous one. Niv chats the whole time, occasionally asking questions that Arun swiftly avoids giving answer to, feeling more and more like a rude jackass.
“Anyway, I don’t think I caught your name?”
“I’m not allowed to share my name,” Arun says, without missing a beat.
“You’re so mysterious,” Niv laughs. He never seems to take it personally; he just shrugs and keeps walking, Muffin at his side like the faithful pet he is.
They never felt such an urge to apologize. Arun is usually a discreet, secretive person. They had to be, in all the time they spent travelling around Dunya, hiding. They couldn’t risk His faithful servants to track them down. Even just pronouncing their name in the wrong place could be dangerous.
But Niv seems to be such an open, friendly person. Sure, probably he was being so polite because he thought Arun was one of the local deity’s religious authorities, but—when he asked things it sounded like he was genuinely curious about Arun, like he wanted to really know what their deal was.
Arun’s friendship with Sazin always felt like a transaction of sorts—bonding through tragedy and fear rather than a mutual, disinterested interest in each other. Niv—the gods bless his little heart—seemed to just like them.
*
Arun manages to keep their hat and veil on for two days straight, suffering the sweat and the heat like they’d been keeping a promise to the gods themselves (like actual Companions did, for all Arun knew about them, which was nothing); but the evening of the third day, the stickiness against his scalp has grown intolerable.
“Can you promise,” they ask Niv, voice scraping their throat, “you’re not gonna tell anybody if I take them off?” It feels like permission to flay themselves, which is stupid. They take the damn things off all the time.
“Of course!” Niv lits up with poorly disguised excitement, and Arun hesitates. Niv flushes. “Ah, it’s just—”
Whatever. Before the half-orc can formulate whatever excuse he was trying to come up with, Arun rips the offending things off their head, and finally breathes. The evening cool air feels like a blessing in their nostrils and against their horns.
When they look up, they catch Niv staring at them. “Yes, I’m a tiefling,” they snap.
“Ah, I was wondering about the— melty skull, actually.”
“Oh.” Arun touches the greasy mess that’s what is left of their face-paint. They took some time to put it back on before Niv got up, that morning. It probably looked even more ghastly than it was supposed to be, after such a hot day.
“It’s rather startling. Is it a religious thing?”
“No,” Arun admits. “It’s just so that people can’t recognize me. I turn rather invisible, when I wipe it off. A change of clothes makes a world of difference, even looking as I do.”
“You do look rather different without it,” Niv agrees, and Arun remembers with embarrassment that the half-orc already saw him once without their face on.
“I know”, Arun says. Niv doesn’t need to know that that greasy mask of paint felt more familiar than their real face, these days. Even after learning how to use the Darkness to summon the Mask of Many Faces and find their shape at will—and before knowing how damaging the Darkness was on their body—they kept putting it on even when they didn’t need it.
Their hair feels flattened and gross. When they start combing it with their finger, Niv makes a pained noise.
[arun fluffs their hair, niv is lowkey horrified at the state of it and asks to fix it. He brushes it out (arun is surprised at the amount of haircare shit he brings with him) and then he braids it up, talking about his father and how hair is important to dwarves. Arun almost falls asleep under the sensory stimulus and basically shits himself, startling away. Tells niv to go to sleep bc they need to walk faster the next morning)

*
“We should arrive by tomorrow evening,” Niv reassures Arun on the third night, as he pulls something that looks like dried fruit from his pack and gives it to Muffin. “You can’t quite see it, because the mountain’s powers protect us from the view until you’re really close, but you can tell by the surrounding area.” He points to something in the distance. Arun can’t really tell.
Their gut feels cold and drawn. It feels like when He’s trying to grab their attention to do His dark bidding, but Arun knows it’s just anxiety. They’re so close, now. Cold sweat covers their forehead, and it’s starting to get uncomfortably sticky under their hat.
At least their hair isn’t sticking to their neck this time, still tight in its braid. They remember with a pang of trepidation the feeling of Niv’s gentle fingers pulling and twisting the strands, and shiver.
“Are you alright?” Niv asks.
“Just nervous,” Arun admits. “It’s been a while since I’ve met another… Companion.”
“Ha, I understand the feeling. But don’t worry, Shivann is very nice.”
They walk and walk and walk until suddenly, like magic, a bunch of circular constructions emerge from the steppe and behind them, huge, blue-ish mountains. Arun blinks, bewildered. They didn’t think they would be so big.
Niv grins at his reaction. “I told you, didn’t I?”
The guilt start getting oppressive. “Wait, Niv,” Arun stops him. “I need to tell you something, before we get to the village. I—” their throat closes, and they swallow. “I am not really a Companion, or whatever you call them.”
“I know. I started having doubts around the first evening or so.”
“You’re not angry.”
Niv shrugs. “People lie and hide for all kinds of reasons. If you really turned out to be dangerous—well, I can hold my own in a fight,” he grinned. “Besides, Muffin likes you, and he’s a great judge of character.”
Arun shakes their head. “I cannot imagine existing with such recklessness. Maybe I’m more dangerous than I look. I could’ve hypnotized your boar into thinking that I’m a good person. Maybe I have hidden powers—”
“And I’m telling you, I would’ve dealt with it. My Da always says that you gotta make your bed and lie in it.” Niv puts a hand on his shoulde, a playful smile on his face. “If you want me to be angry about it, I will.”
“I don’t want you to be angry about it,” Arun mutters.
“Then I won’t be. Tell you what—” Niv seems to think about something. “You tell me your name, and I’ll forget about the whole thing.”
Arun scowls. “If you said you won’t be angry you don’t need a bargain chip to be appeased,” they pointed out. But they’re grateful for the way out, take it for the chance to start over that it is. “Anyway, they call me Arun.”
Niv grins. “Nice to meet you Arun. Let’s introduce you to a real Companion.”
*
Shivann is a tall half-orc with dark hair and a heart-shaped face. She’s clad in a black, flowy robe that looks a bit like Arun’s layers, and a silver raven skull around her neck. She immediately scolds Niv for bringing non-vetted strangers inside the village, and doesn’t like how much —and how little, simultaneously— Arun seems to know about the Black Spouse. Niv lets it slip that they’ve been pretending to be a Companion, and she’s rightfully pissy about it.
“I don’t feel a lot of faith coming from you, child,” she scolds them, circling them like a hawk. “If you don’t believe in Her, what’s the purpose of coming here? What’s driving you, if not faith?”
Arun grits their teeth. “Desperation.”
They don’t mean to share the whole story, and something like shame crawls up their spine knowing that Niv is staring at their back while they’re spilling the whole thing for Shivann and the tribe elders that have joined her solely for the purpose of judging Arun; but they power through it.
Arun tells them about growing up in Gwydir, a weird little demon in a human community; they tell them about Najm, about his kindness, about his ambition. They don’t tell them about the unrequited feelings little Arun had for him, but they’re sure they come across, when their voice breaks as they tell about Najm’s mysterious sickness.
Shivann and the elders and even Niv behind him all gasp in horror when Arun speaks about Him.
“He’s consuming me,” they croak. “There are a few like me, around Dunya, and they all tell the same story. They ask for something they shouldn’t have asked for, and He answers. They get what they want, and then He gets you.” Arun tells them about the rot, about the worms, about the cold and the void and the stars that don’t belong to this universe. “The ones that have been touched are worn out by the Darkness, or they’re found by these… creatures.”
They shiver. “I met one of them, once. They told me to bring a black stone into the city.” Arun swallows. “That city doesn’t exist anymore. I’ve been running ever since, looking for a place to hide, for a way to get free. Please.”
Shivann’s voice when she asks them to give her time to discuss the matter with the elders is surprisingly gentle.
Arun and Niv sit outside the yurta, waiting, for what seems to be like the longest hour of Arun’s life, even longer than the ones they’d spent slowly losing their mind while walking through the steppe.
“Sorry,” Niv says at some point. “I wanted to reassure you or something, but I’m honestly so out of my depth—”
“That’s fine.” Arun feels themselves smile. “Do you still think Muffin is a good judge of character?”
“Muffin is never wrong,” Niv replies so quickly it must be an automatic response. “But kidding aside—what happened to you is terrible. I honestly don’t know what I would do in your position. I don’t think good and bad are words that have any meaning in this situation. From what you told me it’s been a shitty situation all around from day one. I’m sure nobody would blame you for making some questionable choices.”
“Cool motive. Still contributed to the apocalypse.”
Niv grimaces. “Not a great thing to have on your resume. But at least you’re trying to stop it from happening again. That has to count for something, hasn’t it?”
Arun shakes their head. Sazin always said that the worse curse for their kind was that they would always been unable to shake off their sins. There was no atonement, for those whose soul was going to turn into a bunch of fucking worms upon death. The only way to escape was to hide as long as possible—alive. No easy way out, for His warlocks.
It’s strange to talk to someone who thinks of Arun as someone who deserved saving.
*
The elders agree to help Arun. Shivann tells Arun what they need to do. Arun almost faints.
“The Raven’s Betrothal can be performed only during weddings, so you’ll have to get wed—“
“I’m sorry—I have to what?”
“You have to get wed on the Sacred Mountain, in front of the Raven’s temple, in order for the ritual to be completed,” Shivann repeats, patiently. “I’m sure you’ll be shocked to find out that the reason the Raven is also called the Black Spouse is that because she’s married, so marriage is quite important—“
“I’m sure you’ll be shocked to find out that to get married you have to be two people,” Arun bites back, feeling like their skin is about to melt off their bones.
“Oh, I’m sure there is gonna be someone,” one of the wrinklier elders chirps. “We don’t have many visitors, other than the drows from the mountain and the nearby tribes. Someone is gonna be happy not to be stuck with picking among the same fifteen friends of their cousin.”
Arun is about to point out that maybe they are the ones that weren’t going to be happy, but they bite their tongue. What was that thing that Niv’s Da said? They’d made their bed—now they had to lie in it. They did say they would’ve done anything, to get free, and if that anything was marrying a stranger—
“I’ll think about it. Thank you for your help,” Arun croaks, and exits the yurta, heart pounding.
“What about me?”
Arun turns around so quickly they could feel a twinge in their neck. “What?”
Niv, who followed them outside, flushes. “I mean. Of course—we’ve met only last week. But maybe I thought—”
“You’re—you want to be my—” Arun can’t say husband. They can’t. “Betrothed.”
“I want to help,” Niv insists. “Because I know we’ve only met last week but—there’s something compelling about you, and I want to see what it is. I know that getting married of all things is a bit drastic as a way to get to know someone but—” he jokes, weakly.
Arun feels themselves smile a little hysterically. “Well, it’s better than someone’s cousin.”
*
The trek up the mountain is even worse than the hike through the steppe. It’s Arun, Niv and a cheerful, tiny drow called Kallun, who is also a Companion and is so disgustingly in love with the idea of fated love that Arun has to stop themselves from accidentally pushing them off the path more than a couple of times. He’s definitely the most excited about the ritual; Arun feels like vomiting, and even Niv is curiously silent.
Arun cannot stop thinking about it. The ritual is apparently extremely simple: Kallun will bind their hands with a silver ribbon, and after they promise each other mutual assistance until their souls feel aligned to pursue similar goals, they will seal the affair with a kiss. That’s it.
The Betrothal is a blessing that happens a week later or so; in the ancient times it was a blessing that was granted to the spouses in case one of feuds between families—they couldn’t touch the newly weds, least they enraged the Goddess. But famously, to consecrate one’s wedding to the Black Spouse historically ensured the strongest protection and favor from the deity herself.
So Arun’s destiny is still uncertain—like it has always been.
“Hey,” Niv murmurs one night, as they huddle near the fire, trying to keep the frigid wind out of their clothes by pressing close together. “Even if the ritual shouldn’t work—I’ll stay with you. I’ll help you look.”
Arun closes their eyes, and nods. Their destiny is still uncertain, but everything is different now.
*
Arun’s promises feel hollow on their tongue—they’ll never be able to repay Niv for their kindness, they already know. But Niv is smiling at them while Kallun is chanting some kind of ancient prayer to Death, the Black Spouse of Mother Life, and his hand is warm around theirs, and for a moment they can pretend this is real. They wonder what their life is gonna be like, after this, and just that thought makes them dizzy—they’d never had to think of the future before.
“…and like the Black and the White Spouse sealed their pact of love, you can now seal your promise with a kiss,” Kallun says, a little dreamy, sounding far away in the cold wind.
Niv has to bend quite a lot to reach Arun’s face, and something about it is so funny Arun ends up laughing right in his mouth before their lips can touch. The half-orc chuckles right along, and cups Arun’s face in his hands to turn it at the right angle, before kissing them properly.
It’s a nice, soft kiss. The sky doesn’t fall and the mountain doesn’t crumble, and the Darkness doesn’t magically disappear from Arun’s body like they’d been afraid it would do, but there’s a light in their mind that wasn’t there before.
Sazin was wrong after all, Death is gonna help me, Arun thinks, a little giddily.
“Feel any different?” Niv whispers.
Arun smiles. “Yeah. Yeah I think so.”