Magic's Moments

In Which Feyla's Love Fades

Or alternatively, In Which Feyla Considers Losing Some Dead Weigh

"This is the last one, promise?"

Daydrel didn't look up from the map he was reading. Morning light hit his handsome face, pouring in from the wooden panes covering up the window of the dilapidated building they were hiding out inside.

"We can start planning after this one, right?" Feyla's voice rose in desperate hope. "You promised."

Daydrel sighed, finally looking up at her. "This is an important mission for us, Feyla."

Her hope shriveled and her gaze fell to the floor. "I know that," she answered softly.

"If it works, then we'll have a lot of opportunities to build off it, to work with it. Now's not the best time to be worrying about parties and ceremonies," he admonished.

Feyla's cheeks burned at his scolding. She'd packed away her dream of a large, happy ceremony a while ago. Flying to his side, Feyla gripped his muscular arm like it was the only thing holding their relationship together. "Then let's not have one! We don't need it. We just need... I just need you." She wrapped her arms around his tall shoulders and drew him close, letting her eyes flutter shut when he embraced her in turn. He smelled crisp and clean, like fresh soap and soothing ointments. Daydrel's cool finger played with the stray hairs escaping her bun at the nape of her neck. He sighed contentedly.

"Just you and me starting our lives together. We could be bonded by tomorrow if we put our minds to it. Don't you want me to be your wife?" Feyla stared up at him now, pouring every bit of pleading into her aqua eyes. Part of her wondered when she had started needing to.

Daydrel gently pushed her arms off his shoulders and tilted her chin up higher still. His hazel eyes looked strained and tired. Feyla felt a stab of guilt for bothering him. "Of course I do." He cupped her cheek and Feyla leaned into it, sopping up the show of reassurance. "You're my girl. But we need to keep our eyes on the prize. In a couple more decades—"

"Decades?" The word cut into the love knotted to her heart.

"Half a century at most." He raised his hands defensively. Like he was giving her a concession. Like she was the one being unreasonable. "I'll finally get that promotion, our team will be more established, and then we can start thinking about settling down."

"That's what you said before this mission." Her voice wobbled. It sounded small and pathetic to her ears.

Daydrel sighed again. He raked his hand through that carrot-colored hair she loved so much. Her stomach dropped like an anchor. She knew exactly what he was going to say before he even started.

"I need you to understand, Feyla."

There it was. Understanding? Feyla's chest burned, the heat creeping up and reddening her face. She'd been understanding. She'd given Daydrel so much understanding that he should have discovered the cure to wasting disease by now.

"We need to work with what we have and focus on what's important."

Feyla's fists clenched. Angry tears clouded the corners of her eyes. It didn't matter how reasonable the request or how elegant the plead. His answers all rang the same. "I guess we just have different feelings about what's important." She turned on her heels and stalked away.

"Feyla!" he called out. It sounded less concerned and more exasperated.

"I'm checking my gear!" she snapped back. "Since that's the only thing that matters right now," Feyla muttered under her breath.