[Not] A Love Story
She combed her fingers through her hair, smiling to herself.
“Good morning, Angel.”
She turned towards the sound of his voice, soaking in the dappled sunlight playfully caressing his bare torso. Berryl watched with unabashed delight as he toweled his hair from his swim in the nearby stream.
“Good morning, Lover,” she grinned, rising to meet him. “And what plans do we have today, hmm?” she asked, tugging at scant fabric between them. Scattering kisses, he caught her up into his arms and nipped her ear, whispering heavily.
Drawing him by the hand, back to the scattered furs still warm from where she overslept, Berryl spilled to earth graciously as he fell to join her. The dulcet tones of their laughter nearly extinguished the tiny crack that otherwise rang out in the clearing.
Berryl’s lips pursed in surprise; instinct took over as he tumbled, reaching for his bow and quiver while she rolled the other way. Two arrows flew true towards the source of the sound, embedding deep in a nearby tree. The elf steadied her rapier, guarding his flank as he made his wary approach to retrieve them.
Dark, earthen fabric fell to the ground as the offending arrowÂ released itself with a solidÂ grunt. “So he was wounded then,” Aiwendil surmised. “He won’t get far.”
Shivering in the still-morning light, Berryl chafed her sword arm with her free hand, grimacing at her predicament. “Sweetheart..?” She let him take in all her naked glory. Grinning, he brushed her knuckles lightly with his lips, as he clasped her to him by her hand.
“Perhaps he will after all,” he murmured into her hair, scanning the empty horizon.
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