The Moon Between Our Scars

Dawn crept through the cabin like a cautious visitor, painting everything in shades of grey and silver. I woke slowly, aware first of warmth—Dorian's body curved around mine, our shared blankets trapping the heat of skin against skin. No urgency drove us now. Just the simple miracle of waking together, whole, ourselves.

His breathing changed—the subtle shift that meant consciousness returning. I felt him become aware of our tangled limbs, the way my back pressed against his chest, how our scars aligned like a map of survival.

"You're awake," he murmured into my hair.

"Watching the moon set." Through the window, that broken celestial body hung low, its cracks less pronounced than yesterday. As if our joining had mended something larger than ourselves.

His hand traced lazy patterns on my hip, then stilled. "What's this?"

I knew without looking what he'd found—a scar that shouldn't exist, carved into the flesh just below my ribs. Silver-thin, shaped like a crescent torn in half.

"That wasn't there before," he said, not accusation but wonder.

I turned in his arms, meeting those amber eyes that had seen me through possession and fracture and divine violation. "It's from a timeline I never lived. The one where I let you die to save her." My hand found his chest, over his heart. "Guilt leaves marks even when the choice gets erased."

"Aria—"

"Every version of me that dissolved, that got collected, that chose differently—they left souvenirs." I guided his hand to another mark, this one along my collarbone. "This is from the me who became a god. And this—" to a faint line on my shoulder, "—from the one who never had magic at all."

He studied each mark with the focus of a scholar reading sacred text. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. "Do they hurt?"

"Only when I forget which life I'm living."

He kissed the crescent scar with such tenderness I nearly broke. "This life," he whispered against the damaged skin. "You're living this life. With me. With her. With all your beautiful damage and terrible choices."

Something shifted between us—not desire exactly, but deeper need. The need to be known, held, chosen despite the multitudes we contained. When he kissed me properly, it tasted of forgiveness for sins committed in timelines that no longer existed.

We moved together without hurry, rediscovering territories mapped in darkness now revealed by pearl-grey light. His hands were patient, reverent, tracing each scar like a blessing. When I gasped at his touch, it wasn't from pleasure alone but from the shocking grace of being seen—all of me, every fractured piece—and still being wanted.

"Let me," he breathed against my throat, and I understood he wasn't asking for permission to touch but to heal, to love away the phantom pain of choices unmade.

This joining was different from the night's desperate claiming. Slower, deeper, each movement deliberate as ritual. He watched my face as we moved together, and I saw myself reflected in his eyes—not as vessel or mother or survivor, but simply as woman. His woman. The one he'd choose in every timeline, every possibility.

I breathed his name like prayer, and he answered with my true one—not the cosmic title but the simple "Aria" that meant everything. Our bodies found rhythms older than prophecy, and in that ancient dance, I remembered what it meant to inhabit my own skin without fear.

"I'm here," I whispered, unsure if I was reassuring him or myself. "I'm here, I'm whole, I'm—"

*Watching.*

The word slipped into my mind like silk—not invasive but observational. Ashara, still asleep in her cradle, but somehow present. Not judging or fearing, just... knowing. Feeling the warmth of connection that would be her foundation, her proof that love could exist even in a world bent on taking everything.

"She knows," I gasped, and Dorian's movement stuttered.

"Should we—"

"No." I pulled him closer, deeper. "Let her feel this. Not the act but the choosing. The staying. The proof that some things are worth fighting gods for."

He made a sound between laugh and sob, pressing his forehead to mine as we moved toward completion. "You terrify me sometimes."

"Good," I breathed, then lost words entirely as the world narrowed to sensation, connection, the perfect imperfection of mortal love.

After, we lay twined like vines, sweat cooling in the morning air. Dorian's fingers combed through my hair, pulling free tangles with infinite patience. Neither of us spoke—words felt too small for what we'd shared.

He drifted back to sleep first, his breathing evening out against my shoulder. I watched the moon through our window, noting how its cracks had indeed begun to seal. Not healed—that would take more than one night of love—but mending. As if the universe itself had remembered that broken things could still be beautiful.

A movement caught my eye. A single feather, pure white despite no birds being near, drifted through the window on impossible breeze. It spiraled down with deliberate grace, landing on Ashara's tiny hand where it rested outside her blanket.

She didn't wake, but her fingers curled slightly, holding the gift with infant instinct. The feather gleamed with subtle iridescence—not quite earthly, not quite divine. A message, perhaps. Or a blessing. Or a warning dressed in softness.

I should have been afraid. Should have leaped up, swept the feather away, checked for threats. Instead, I pulled Dorian's arm tighter around me and watched our daughter hold proof that we weren't alone in this story.

"Third force," I whispered to the morning. "I see you."

The feather pulsed once with gentle light, and Ashara smiled in her sleep.

Whatever watched us—whoever had sent this token—at least it came bearing gifts instead of teeth. For now, that was enough.

The moon set. The sun rose. And for these few perfect moments, we were just a family waking to a new day, carrying our scars like medals, loving each other through the damage.

Tomorrow would bring its trials. The names would call. The gods would remember we existed.

But right now, Dorian's heartbeat under my ear was steady. Ashara's breathing was peaceful. The feather gleamed like a promise.

And I let myself believe, just for this morning, that broken things could mend.