At the End of the Day.

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Thanks to Kara-chan for beta-ing ::huggles::.

Usual disclaimers.

From the '100 themes' challenge, # 58.

Summary: Epiphany can be silent.

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Something has changed. Is it him? Is it herself? Or rather, both refused to see it before. Yet...

Every thought drowns and dissolves, only to shape itself into new rolling waves, always reaching for that longed for shore.

The tide is turning. Again. One of those times when she can't help but reach for him, no matter what he could say or do. One of those times when he can't help but do the same...more and more...

He has been the one to invite her here, in this place high enough for one's gaze to embrace the city and the ocean and to almost reach the heavens. He's barely glanced at the cluster of emotions and pale pulsing throat of the girl sitting at the table, a fleeting upturning of lips the only greeting between their suddenly tongue-tied selves.

She's watching his form facing her, setting sun dipping him in burning orange-gold, framing him in a flaming glow. He's staring at the sunset unblinkingly – and she's suddenly reminded of Ami's remark on ancient beliefs about eagles -, falling rays revealing the inner flame in his irises, tiny mesmerizing speckles in ink-blue orbs. A living lapis-lazuli ring encasing the abyss of his pupil.

As sunset darkens into hues of red, the determination of his tense jaw line and mouth looks almost cruel and unyielding and fiery, like a warrior standing unwavering in a bloody battlefield. She shakes away the image of him in armour covered with scarlet streaks, ruthless and desperate and grieving. A mourning Ares, and therefore thrice as deadly.

He turns his face towards her and she hastily diverts her gaze to her hands, only to find the sunset has blood-coloured them as well and she startles as they're enveloped by other hands –his- and she realizes he is stopping hers from trembling. Their joined hands, still coated crimson by a dying sun.

His hands speak of pain and beauty, but his steady pulse reverberates through his skin to her. Strength. Protection. Love.

Love?

Surprise fades under the steadiness of it. Yes, there's love in his touch. He would fight with all of his being, because there's no other choice; he was made to love. And she discovers in him her equal - I recognize it now: his wish for love, much stronger as it could never be fully received nor given – And he was made to be loved. She could love him.

She would endure - no, devote - herself to loving him more than anyone and anything.

Her shock is quieter than she'd expect. And just like a wave, it rolls over and away. Meeting and enveloping his and the sound of his silence. Leaving only their entwining fingers behind.