'My mind is really playing tricks on me...' thought Nox, glancing at the Torven from his vision, a slight dizziness washing over him.
This time, instead of the menacing, terrifying Torven he remembered from previous dreams, he saw a figure that seemed uneasy, as if troubled by something.
Or was that just an illusion?
Perhaps the dream was toying with his senses? This tall warrior looked as if he was full of ambiguous emotions and unexpected tenderness.
Torven's eyes were black as coal, intense, deep, and impossible to ignore. Nox had never held eye contact with him for this long before. Only in the dream could he examine them in their full glory. They were like two black wells, too dark to see the bottom of, and yet captivating... fascinating.
The warrior's brows were slightly furrowed. Nox studied the scar above his right eyebrow. Distinctive but not disfiguring. Instead of looking threatening, it seemed... charming? 'Charming?' he snorted inwardly, surprised at the thought.
Torven's nose was finely sculpted; straight, symmetrical, not crooked like those of many warriors who had weathered countless battles. Nox found himself thinking he'd like to run his fingers along it, to feel its shape and smoothness.
'What would it feel like to run my fingers through his hair?' he wondered. It looked thick and soft, with a slight sheen. 'Would it really be as silky as it looked...?'
And his lips; they looked clenched. Noticeably thinner than before, as if the warrior was suppressing something he didn't want to reveal. Was it tension? Fear? Hesitation?
It was as if Torven had his jaw tightly set, holding back emotions that simmered beneath the surface of his seemingly cold gaze.
Small clouds of vapor escaped from Torven's lips, floating in the cool air. Nox could have sworn he saw his Adam's apple, large and pronounced, tighten, then slightly rise and fall.
Nox's gaze drifted lower. On Torven's neck, he noticed tiny beads of sweat. One began to trickle downward. Hypnotized, Nox followed it with his eyes. The warrior's shirt was open and loose, casual, as if he'd just stepped off the training ground.
The drop paused in the hollow between his neck and collarbone, then disappeared beyond sight. Nox thought that he would want to catch it with his fingers if he could only lift an arm.
Torven was slightly hunched as he leaned over him. Nox caught a glimpse of the gap between the fabric and his chest. He couldn't see it clearly, but he could imagine how it looked.
Torven's chest was broad, strong. Nox could swear that if he touched it, he'd feel the tense muscles beneath, firm and resilient.
The warrior's skin was smooth, slightly damp. He imagined running the tip of his finger over it, feeling the muscles react to even the slightest touch.
And that scent... Torven smelled intense, masculine, like steel and smoke, with an earthy undertone. For a brief moment, Nox longed to press his nose to the spot near his collarbone, where the droplet of sweat had disappeared.
'I wonder if I could wrap one arm around Torven,' he thought, studying his silhouette. 'Probably not, but he wouldn't have any trouble wrapping his around me.'
In his imagination, the warrior pulled him in at the waist, roughly, almost barbarically, yet with tenderness and lifted him slightly, then leaned in to whisper in his ear:
"Don't you have something to say to me?"
Nox laughed inwardly. The image was absurd, almost comical, but at the same time, it stirred a familiar warmth, a trembling sensation. He felt a slight tightness in his pants and immediately scolded himself for such foolish fantasies.
A cool touch appeared on Nox's forehead. He had the sensation that it was Torven brushing away a strand of hair stuck to his skin. The hand was large, warm, but rough, he could clearly feel his calluses, almost identical to his own, only stronger, more pronounced.
A warrior.
A man of the sword.
Nox drifted in and out of consciousness, stuck somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Everything felt foggy and heavy. Every time he tried to move or open his eyes, it was like something pulled him back down, holding him still. Light and shadow flickered behind his eyelids and some strange noises were echoing in his mind.
Then he felt someone touching him. As if a pair of warm hands was moving over him, leaving a trail of warmth. He wanted to lift his head, to see who was there, but his neck wouldn't cooperate.
Suddenly, he felt like the ground was shifting. Then he realized it was him who was being moved. His body rocked gently with each step. It felt like floating. His body swayed gently. It was strangely comforting.
The feeling brought back a memory. He wasn't sure from when, exactly. Maybe from when he was very small. Maybe when his mother was still alive.
'Did she ever carry me like this? Rock me to sleep?'
He couldn't remember the details, just the feeling, being safe, warm, not needing to think or move. Just resting. Letting someone else take over.
Now, someone was doing the same thing.
His thoughts slowly faded, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.....
After what felt like only just a moment, but could also have been days, Nox opened his eyes again. His mind still not fully conscious, he took longer than usual to notice his surroundings...
...He found himself once again in the same bedroom of Torven's estate where he had stayed before.
There was, however, no time to fully grasp the reality of his situation, because for a fleeting second, the dream about Torven returned to him, and Nox felt completely mortified. His cheeks burned with shame. For a moment, he wished he could vanish from the planet altogether, burying his face in his hands.
But the sharp sting of embarrassment gave way to something else as his attention quickly shifted to his leg. He looked down. It appeared exactly as it had before his attempted escape; uninjured, untouched. But the real shock, the one that left him breathless, came when he glanced at the back of his right hand.
His Mark, once a thin crescent...
Now looked... bigger?
As if his moon was slowly replenishing....
Nox stared at his hand, heart pounding as the realization was settling in. The Mark, his brown, ugly Mark, had changed. The once thin crescent had thickened, growing more defined, more substantial, as if it was inching toward fullness. It pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, but he could feel it under his skin, a quiet rhythm that seemed to sync with his heartbeat. He reached out hesitantly, fingers hovering over this symbol before brushing against it. The surface was warm, almost feverish.
'What does it mean?', Nox was completely puzzled.