You're right, of course. ( his hands tighten on hers. ) Not even death could stop how I love you.
( he's glad she knows it, too. there was a time, maybe even a few minutes ago, when alina wouldn't be able to even shyly announce you loved me, to the cicadas and the acorns currently eavesdropping on this conversation. there was a time when even paul was afraid to say it, not because he didn't feel it, but because he's never sure how alina will find him. lacking or insulting, if his affections are the simple dreams of a lonely boy finding a lonely girl to mix souls with.
there's none of that fear now, though. in the wake of his neediness, he find reassurance — finds, he's never felt more sure of himself or alina, in this dusty little chapel, the sunlight creeping in, showing off dust particles in the air like little glimmers of glitter along the foliage, like alina's freckles that sparkle and shine if you stare at them for long enough. they'd disappeared for awhile, after her usage of merzost. they're back now, and he loves them as much as he loves her, smiling at her indulgently to the sound of friends in her mouth, as if friends frequently stand together like this, make the promises they have, feel the way they do.
it's not wrong, though. alina is his best friend. )
It is. It's not the one I choose, though. ( bluntly, ) I think we should be wed. Here. Not in one of your saintly churches, not in one of my caverns of worship — not to any god or maker or divine being. Here, where we decide what it means to us, to have the trees and flowers and creatures of the forest to witness our love. Just-Alina and Just-Paul, and Just-Alia, if I can call her here.
( on caladan, there used to be these tiny, green flowers that sprung up from the sea — no one was ever sure if they were algae or not, but as a child paul used to tie them together in little knotted chains and crown his mother the goddess of beauty and sea, his father the warrior of the waves. now, he finds little white petaled daisies to pluck from the ground, tying them together with the old, childish muscle memory of when he was a meticulous little boy, not willing to bruise a single leaf.
he gets down on one knee, placing the daisy linked crown in her hand. )
no subject
( he's glad she knows it, too. there was a time, maybe even a few minutes ago, when alina wouldn't be able to even shyly announce you loved me, to the cicadas and the acorns currently eavesdropping on this conversation. there was a time when even paul was afraid to say it, not because he didn't feel it, but because he's never sure how alina will find him. lacking or insulting, if his affections are the simple dreams of a lonely boy finding a lonely girl to mix souls with.
there's none of that fear now, though. in the wake of his neediness, he find reassurance — finds, he's never felt more sure of himself or alina, in this dusty little chapel, the sunlight creeping in, showing off dust particles in the air like little glimmers of glitter along the foliage, like alina's freckles that sparkle and shine if you stare at them for long enough. they'd disappeared for awhile, after her usage of merzost. they're back now, and he loves them as much as he loves her, smiling at her indulgently to the sound of friends in her mouth, as if friends frequently stand together like this, make the promises they have, feel the way they do.
it's not wrong, though. alina is his best friend. )
It is. It's not the one I choose, though. ( bluntly, ) I think we should be wed. Here. Not in one of your saintly churches, not in one of my caverns of worship — not to any god or maker or divine being. Here, where we decide what it means to us, to have the trees and flowers and creatures of the forest to witness our love. Just-Alina and Just-Paul, and Just-Alia, if I can call her here.
( on caladan, there used to be these tiny, green flowers that sprung up from the sea — no one was ever sure if they were algae or not, but as a child paul used to tie them together in little knotted chains and crown his mother the goddess of beauty and sea, his father the warrior of the waves. now, he finds little white petaled daisies to pluck from the ground, tying them together with the old, childish muscle memory of when he was a meticulous little boy, not willing to bruise a single leaf.
he gets down on one knee, placing the daisy linked crown in her hand. )
Will you marry me, Alina?