It is late evening. The sun is slowly descending past the tall, distant mountains. Some rays yet linger, gently caressing the land as they sweep over it. A house, no longer alone, lits up as a cloud makes way and lets the beams of gold dance across its wooden surface. The granite roof tiles are less willing to reflect it, and instead content themselves with drinking them in. Inside a lone woman stirs. She walks to the open shutters and leans through them, eagerly taking in the sight. Fields, neatly arrayed in rectangles, fill the view. Most are filled with grain, potatoes, cabbages, beets and a plethora of other vegetables, all in varying states of growth. Others hold animals, though those are few. Cows lazily mingle with sheep, while a bit beyond them a handful of mud-coated pigs greedily take in the last bit of sunlight. There are scant clouds overhead, and she knows it will be a pleasantly warm night. 

A gentle breeze caresses the land she and her husband cultivated. It causes waves in the dense fields of grass and grain, a sight she never tires from. In the distance she hears noises that don't belong to nature. The gentle bickering between her beloved and her younger sister. The girl, a bouncy little thing powered by a never-drying well of potent energy, ceaselessly bothering him with questions about anything her active mind could conceive of, while using her stoic husband as a climbing post, or a prey to be brought low, her mood depending. The man in question, she knew, would be answering her with the sort of endless patience only a solidly calm character could bring. He'd play along with the girl, right up to the point when something needed doing. Then he'd gently shush her to a halt. The thought of it sent a smile to her face. 

A bit beyond them, and more off to the side, another house stood. It was less rustic than her own, built only recently, and as much as the houses differed so did the people who inhabited them. Her best friend lived there, though not so of her own volition. Still, despite all the issues their reunitement had caused, she was glad for her friend's company. The woman in question would likely be struggling not to end up buried beneath mountains of paper, post-its and several unstable towers of dirty plates and unwashed, half-filled coffee cups. Had her friend been an unwilling prisoner at first, by now the woman likely would fight to stay, her passion for history locking her down more tightly than any chains ever could.

Behind her a sharp whistle rang and she broke off her ruminations and moved to attend to their dinner. It wasn't anything complicated, not anymore at least. Over the past months her cooking skills had improved considerably, for once without her husband's well-meant meddling. She was proud of it too. She had always been capable of making simple meals, but now she could cook a proper stew, and spice it, without thinking it special. Tasks that had once mystified her, such as cutting meat off a carcass, mixing sauces and boiling vegetables just right, were now trivial to her. It had also become a fun habit to debate what meat to use for the coming days, whenever they were about to switch to a new carcass.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

She removed the pot off the fire and put it on the table, allowing it to cool down. In about twenty minutes it'd be ready, the same time she expected her husband and sister to be back. She didn't worry about her friend running late again. Engrossed in her research as the woman might be, they had come to an understanding with her custodian, who'd ensure her timely arrival. For now though, that left her with some time for herself.

She moved to her desk and pulled her chair back, leaving her husband's in place. Not that she could move it. Her husband weighed several times what she did, and would annihilate any piece of normal furniture he sat on. Consequently he had built their house with those limits in mind. There were scant few things that weren't reinforced, wood often hiding steel underneath. She smiled at the memories of when she first found that out. She did that a lot these days. Despite the stress and frequent arguments over the upcoming trip to the city, she loved him dearly, and simply being with him made her happy, far beyond what she had ever expected from a relationship.

She reached out and prepared her stylus and ink pot, carefully unscrewing it and exposing the black ink to the evening air. She unclasped the lock on her diary. She had only recently picked up the habit again, but rather than keeping a digital version that resembled a blog more than anything else she had stayed in line with their general lifestyle and reverted to an old method that did not rely on modern technology. Dipping her pen into it, she began to write.

I still remember the first time I saw his eyes. When he finally took off those damnable, ever-present sunglasses. To say it took my breath away would be an understatement. To say it was romantic would be a lie. I had partially fallen for him at that stage. Or rather, I was firmly in his grasp. Pun intended. Like a moon caught in a planet's orbit, I had long lost the opportunity to escape. I was determined to find out the hidden truth, and to help him heal, to help him live. No matter the cost.

Little had I known that seeing his eyes would condemn me to my fate. Little had I known that when I stared into those inhuman eyes and tried to see the person behind them, those eyes were doing the very same thing to me. 

Little had I known that I would see those eyes a thousand thousand times again, and that I would never tire from looking at them.