Vorzheva had a memory; she tasted it upon the storm in a stem of turbulent savagery. A single soul, he stood alone at the ragged edge of disaster, yearning but never achieving the love he so desired. She had trapped his soul, this lover, but time and chance was against them, and together they would not be—not in this lifetime. Lost one, your search it never ends. The memory tugged free of her senses, and flew amongst the rest that sobbed with the passing gale, it left her not saddened but mindful.

This man did not seek one thing though, no single lover kept him fixated. He was bid by nature to search, a male instinct that brought both joy and pain. Some sought to hear pretty words, respectful spaces, these things Vorzheva could not stand. Vanity, greed, arrogance, they called them sins, and not without cause. To remain humble, that was her gift, as it was her legacy to the world.

A flaw she sensed, as she had when he first neared her, across the side he hid so well. A story. Her fingers fell gently against the white skin on his right temple, not intruding upon the secret left undiscovered behind his shield of hair. It was not her place to intrude where no harm was due, and yet she let her curiosity spin with her fingers over the dark locks, a silent question that didn’t seem to beg for an answer, but only serve to make him aware of her interest.

With his movements, so sure and masculine, she too breached the last quavering space that held her from him, and flesh found flesh, as it always would. That voice fixated her every sense as it rushed past the skin beneath his lips and out his mouth. Often it had been said that she was wise, pushed beyond her age by a deeply rooted craving, but how simple to her these words and fancies came. They collected in her mind, the product of what she observed, no more. He worried, and though she might have taken his subtle glance skyward as fear, she knew better. Fear did not taste or sound like this, his breathing it did not quicken, she felt the pulse in his neck where her skin met his.

“There is a place to which we must go I think, this empty space is spent for us.” Her mother had taught her never to linger, and so she felt no need to play words with him. It was here her path had led, and it was here that she had been met by choices. As always, the little thing would follow her interest, captivated by the company not her own.

Instinct told her to go, go now, and so her fingers slid painlessly across his shoulder and were gone. Vorzheva moved once more, her journey extending again and out of sight, for who would want to witness where it ended?