It starts when he first lays eyes on her - brown hair tucked into a soft pink scarf and softer eyes widening in unknown realization - the beating of his heart.

It continues when he first held him in his hand - a sword made for a god, sturdy and long and wrapped in the bandages of a pernicious past - the running of his blood.

It lasts when her bright eyes turn cold - later filling with warmth and sorrow, slipping down flushed cheeks and staining the sleeves of peach sweaters - the mending of his bones.

It persists when his fear replaces faith - topaz eyes desperately hardening to keep the cracks from spreading, shining in the darkness that lingers - the growing of his skin.

It stays when her hands cradle his face - soft voice strong and wavering, clear eyes steady with the sorrow of the divine and their ways - the lasting of his smile.

It remains when his uncertainty sharpens - golden hair soft as fingers tangle themselves in it, reassuring the usefulness of a dull blade - the softening of his hands.

He wonders when it will go; when he will stop growing into someone else, someone who lacks newly-learned compassion in his eyes and natural kindness braided into dark hair.

Calamity and peace don't exist side by side; but as they laugh over cups of tea, teasing and happy and bursting with life - he wonders if they can.

A strand of brown hair, a gleam of orange eyes - and no, he hopes they can