The pair, reunited once more, gathered about them the scattered shards of a former life, and departed for home. . Home. How strange that word rang in her ears, how waywardly did it roll off the tongue. Home. Had it truly been mere months since she’d seen hers last? Fëanor shook free of such melancholy musings, even as they strived to cling to the darkened corners of memory like unwelcome cobwebs. Katsuro, weary from the events as they had unfolded like the petals of a lotus blossom, once more melted like mist onto Fëanor’s back, vanishing like a wraith born of mist into the earth, subsiding into his two-dimensional form as he sought time and rest, for the great cat could only heal within his own realm of existence. Once home, even if Fëanor’s mind failed to silence itself of its own accord, Kane soon proved more than able to silence its ceaselessly, idle chatter by his own will. No sooner had the door whispered shut upon the rest of the world, than he crossed the length of the floor, rather deftly unlaced the stiff, humble string of fabric that held closed Fëanor’s kimono. With a vague whisper, the cloth parted, revealing only a mere blush of flesh. A mere touch, and the fabric became unbalanced, and it slid with a defeated sigh from the shoulders of Fëanor. Yet he let not even a mere fingertip touch her. As it was, he merely leaned closer still, his gentle exhalations as warm and mild as a spring breeze, whispering across her flesh in such a gently indolent manner that she shivered, skin prickling and raising like the stippled pattern of gooseflesh. Only then did he trace his fingertips in idle whispers across her flesh, creating intricate, interlocking spirals, as the tips of his fingers merely skimmed like crane’s over the surface of a lake over her skin, causing her to whimper, however uncharacteristic in a mild manner of pleading for some release. As though he had been merely awaiting that single sound, he once more silently obliged.

He began to besiege the subtle, graceful arch of her neck with deft, deliberate strokes of his tongue, much like the hesitant artist makes their first tentative strokes upon the blank canvas with a sable-haired paintbrush. However, much like the artists strokes become more assured when the image of what shall grace the blank canvas presents itself in their mind, so, too, did the stroke of his tongue become slightly more rough, and urgent. Despite this, he never lost his air of calm deliberation. Once one side of her neck ran moist and chill, he gently gathered her chin upon the cusp of his fingertips and turned her head, lavishing his attentions upon the opposite side of the gentle slope of her neck. That side was besieged in tender kisses, altering between kisses and small nips and gentle tugs of folds of flesh ensnared between the white flash of teeth. Next, in a slightly feminine moment of allure, he unfurled the loose curl of her fingers, gently bruising the tips with bites that lacked gentleness, before running the tip of his tongue over the bruised flesh in silence. Fëanor submitted to his attentions, any trace of acrimony that it was not she who so dominated at the moment gone with the wry thought of, Damn. He’s good.

As if to silently extend those compliments, she slid her own hands into the folds of his Yukata, gently seizing folds of his flesh between her fingertips and palm and flexing her hands not unlike the kneading motion of a feline, before halting for a moment, only to lavish the bare flesh with minute rubs, her own teeth toying in a coy manner with his earlobe. However, the moment of shy, coy behavior vanished of a sudden within Kane, and he paced back for a moment. A moment of silent appraisal, and nothing more. Within the blink of an eye, he drew his face level with her chest, tongue lavishing the gentle firmness of her nipples with gentle attention, teeth closing around them only now and again, an apology ever at the ready with the silken touch of his lips, his right hand all the while steadily squeezing her right breast. Fëanor herself rewarded him only with the gentle encouragement of the soft sounds made within her throat. When at last she could no longer bring herself to be patient, the two retired to the white expanse of sheets. Even here, Fëanor willingly gave him the role of dominance, running her fingers in blatant appreciation along his back with each rhythmic rise and fall, occasionally brining her hips up to meet him, fingernails creating half-moons upon bare shoulders at the last moment of bliss, their shared pants joining seamlessly as one.

Within the next four sunrises, Kane stole behind Fëanor and wrapped his arms about her as she gazed out upon their orchard, a distant look within her eyes as a cascade of cherry blossoms veiled her view momentarily. She smiled faintly, and ran her hands along the length of his arms with an absent air, eyes straying to the deep shadow of the cherry tree. There, within its gnarled roots, a smaller sapling rose its drowsing head as the older tree swept a protective limb to its side. “Kane,” she began, her voice undertaking a distant tone. “I…” she turned to face him then, a small, uncertain smile spreading across her features like the sunrise, with just as much gentle hope. “I have something to tell you,” she began again. Kane’s eyes drifted like a docked ship to her stomach, where she had first began to feel the first stirrings, mere whispers, of life. Wordlessly, he extended a hand and rested it there. A slow smile graced both of the warrior’s features. Without another word, the two entwined hands, and watched the sunrise unfurl its still-wet wings. Together.

Author’s Note: First and foremost, I’d like to thank you, the reader. Without your invaluable advise, praise, and overwhelmingly positive feedback, this story would not be what it is today. You have all, in little ways and not-so-little ways shaped Myth over the past year. For that, you have my undying love and gratitude. So, thank you. I hope you will join me in the rearing of Kane and Fëanor’s child, as Star-Wars-ish as the ending may seem. Forgive the mush in advance. Feel free to vomit in the corner, if you’d like. Until next time, I remain, your faithful L:K.