Maybe it was true that they didn't have to go over everything with a fine-tooth comb, that words were, after all, nearly useless. Because when he took three resolved steps towards her, put a hand behind her head and one behind her back and kissed her, she didn't feel like talking or explaining, at all.

She threw her arms around his neck, keeping him closer than they had ever been. They just stood there, in the middle of a messy living room, filled with the sounds of the city coming from the open windows and the questionable smell of Chinese cuisine, making out like the two teenagers they had made abundantly clear they weren't, savoring every second of their mutual exploration, their lips touching and rubbing, their tongues entwining in the first, awkward steps of a new dance.

Nobody moved first. They moved together, without separating one inch, this time. They found their way to Banshee's room and found themselves lying down on the bed, side by side, still entwined like tropical vines.

In the distance, the noise of a pick-up truck engine revving up and disappearing in the night got lost in the many sounds of Boston.

Someone would have thought that, after all that time, they would tear at each other like rabid animals, finally able to discharge instincts and desire kept in check for so long. On the contrary. They moved slowly in the arms of one another, kissing, touching, letting their hands adjust to bodies they still didn't know but had ached to know. Their clothes fell, finally discovering their skins. Garaham's well-kept, but clearly not pristine body against Banshee's muscular one.

He rolled over her and kissed each inch of her skin, as she passed her fingers and nails on every detail of his muscles, or lack thereof, mapping him with her fingertips. It was, and felt, absurdly awkward. They ended up hurting each other in the clumsiest ways. A jab in the wrong place here, a nudge on a sore spot there, with frustrated sighs and amused laughs interrupting the endless shower of kisses and caresses, in between those gawky episodes.

Then, they adjusted to one another. Slowly. And when they finally lost themselves in one another, Garaham hid his pleasure grunts against her softly moaning mouth.

It was probably the most boring and unskillful lovemaking they both have ever experienced. But after they climaxed, looking into each other's eyes they simply knew that it had been the best.

He turned towards her sleeping figure. She was laying on her stomach, softly snoring. She had snored like a bear for half of the night, and he had started gently nudging her, but ultimately had to resolve to a well-placed back kick. She had slept like an angel ever since.

He could finally focus on her tattoos. The one on the arms, he knew well. But he had never seen the one around her right calf: a Claddagh with the name "Killian" written inside the heart. On her back, there were six lines of St. Patrick's Breastplate, a prayer he had heard her recite quite often, especially before prepared fights.

The splendor of fire,

The speed of lightning,

The swiftness of wind,

The depth of the sea,

The stability of the earth,

The firmness of rock.

He couldn't help but put a hand to caress her bare back. He had always thought himself better than his colleagues, who shamelessly slept around.

Problem was, that wasn't fun for him. At all. The light of day put him in front of what he usually scolded others for not wanting to face: consequences.

They had passed the point of no return. There was no direction, but forwards.

But forward, there was no road.

«Ye know, ye're emitting anxiety, don't ye?» asked a muffled, sleepy voice from Banshee's pillow.

She turned slowly. Her eyes were half-closed and bleary, her skin, pale, in the almost direct sunlight coming from the open window, and her hair was an ungodly mess.

«You know this could never be more than... this. Don't you?» he muttered, with shame in his voice. «Even if I left Francesca, the Order... it would be hell to pay for us.»

«Aye. Still not understand why the fuck why, though. Yer brother's doing well. And ye don't really give a fuck about career. If it is fer the lass and lassie though...»

«No. Well, not directly. Starting from the fact that a divorce would be traumatic for them, however, it happened...» he relaxed against the pillows, as she rolled over, putting her head on his heart. «... the Order forbids divorces. Enforcers are few. People born with Dispel power, or really able to learn it, are precious. Keeping families together make you sure you have bloodlines.»

«Magic isn't a matter o' bloodlines, for the little I know.» she grumbled, trying to follow his words with her muddled brain.

«It isn't, but predisposition could. At least, it always seemed less than a risk to try than to let it go. Remember that the Order was born in the mid-1300s, in a period of great fear and panic. Magic had been gone, and it was coming back. The werepeople were appearing, rabid and angry. The Order had to be a unifying force, and how do you unite people?»

«Marriages and blood bonds.» she slurred.

«Still, can't see why in the late 2000s we're still following such stupid-ass rules.»

«Why can't priests marry?» Garaham asked back.

Banshee yawned, scratched her eyes and looked up at him, feeling the strange breeze of being right there, at that moment.

«Ye're taking advantage o' me situation fer a lesson, aren't ye?»

«I did drain all of my brilliant tactics to screw some notions in your brain a long time ago, I just...»

«... had to find that it wasn't me brain that ye had to screw?» she snickered, when he glared at her. «... hey! Ye walked right into it.»

«You're avoiding my question.»

«I think I get it.» she sighed. «If ye change one rule, how do ye know where to stop? The priest can marry, so why can't they divorce?»

«Precisely.» he mindlessly started to caress her hair with his hand, passing through the thick mass of red velvet. «The Order is the same. Everyone knows it's a very old rule. But you can't possibly start changing things and just change one. It's been years that we need an upgrade of the Codex, but it never seems the right time to sit down and talk about it. A war here, a werepeople situation there... and no Council ever wants to put its name to reforms that could somehow disrupt the precarious balance we have so painfully reached after hundreds of backstabbing.»

«So, just like Catholics, Enforcers can sleep around, as soon as they're not busted.» she said, with a sigh. Garaham's caresses intensified, and she let go of an involuntary purring sound.

«So, that's the only thing we could do. Sneak around, don't ever get busted. I can't offer you anything more. My father was the late Enforcer Academy's Councilman. He had to abdicate his post, something that hardly happens as Councillors tend to die in their seats, to save River from being imprisoned or exiled. So, as usual, the price of my little brother's tantrums is the fact that I have...» his hand stopped, grabbing a little tighter to a lock of her hair. «... to focus on my duty. And that lies with my family.»

«Are ye sure ye want this, Chief? It's more stressful than sneaking out one night a year to pray over tomb.» she whispered. And as much as she had tried to keep her voice calm and steady, not to make him feel urged or pressed at all, he could feel the soft lines of terror in her voice as she landed the question, her hands slightly trembling on his naked chest.

«I have been less sure of much better choices of my life.» he said, without even thinking. She frowned but ultimately chose to chalk it down as a compliment and let him go on. «It's not what I wanted. But it's all I can get, and all I can give. Bloody hell, that came out all wrong.» he squinted, passing two fingers over his eyes.

She hugged him, closer.

«I know.» she whispered, softly.

«Are you sure that you can endure such an existence, because of me?» he became incredibly serious, in sore contrast with her apparently carefree attitude towards the situation. «Are you absolutely sure this will be enough? » those words came out with a world of uncertainty and hurt, as if he already knew the answer, and was painfully ready to have it thrown at him.

She raised her hand to caress his face, his rough beard scraping against her hand, a tired smile on her lips.

«You're enough, for me.» she whispered, her eyes half-closed pointed in his.

Garaham felt something plunge inside him, around the zone of his heart. It was like someone had poured molten gold all over it, filling him with a sudden, gentle warmth. That was a sensation he had never experience before.

He tried to hide the mix of emotions that had awakened by kissing her, for a long time, wrapping her in his arms.

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Hi guys!

here we are: Strange Aeons is coming to its end. On Monday you'll have the final chapter + the epilogue and we're taking a break till mid-January, when Lost Kindred will be started.

But the drooly and moved notes will be in the next part.
For now, as always, so many thanks for your support, love, and comments. They really motivated all the group to go on working - and boy, do we have work to do!

So, have a very nice last 2019 weekend and... see you Monday!

Lots of Love,
Daniel

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