As the night comes to an end, Oleksandr escorts the princess back to her chambers. The halls are quieter and more tranquil than the festivities of the party, the air cool and quiet after the chaos of the celebration. As the princess walks silently beside him, he sneaks glances at her, his mind filled with thoughts of her, and his heart filled with the memory of their kiss in the forest. They stop outside her chambers, and he unlocks the door, holding it open for her. As she turns to step inside, he addresses her softly, "goodnight, Savushka..." The princess pauses in the doorway, her head turning slightly towards him, revealing a flash of her soft, doe-like eyes. Her head tilts slightly, her voice tender in response.

"Goodnight, Oleksi." Their gaze lingers for a moment, before they both look away as she walks deeper inside. He closes the door behind her, and looks down at the handle for a long moment, before he then forces himself to walk back down to his chambers.

He enters his quarters and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, a sigh escaping his lips. He takes off his bandana and runs his fingers through his hair, the soft, flaxen strands falling loose with the movement. The events of the night replay in his mind, his thoughts and feelings swirling like a maelstrom. His fingers trail the bangles on his wrist, his thoughts drifting back to the prissy little prince who had dared to try courting the princess earlier that night. He knew that Savka was already getting late to be married, and that at some point, she would be betrothed to someone who wasn't him.

His heart clenches as he ponders this; the thought of her marrying someone else twists like a dagger in his chest, and the thought of another man getting to hold and love her makes his blood boil. Oleksandr rises from the bed, his mind still caught in a whirlwind of emotion.

Without taking the time to consider the consequences, he moves to the door and leaves the room, silently slipping out into the shadowy corridors.

He finds himself standing before her bedroom door, the halls completely silent and still, bathed in darkness. After a brief moment of hesitation, he raises his knuckles towards the door and knocks quietly on it, the sound of his knuckles against the wood echoing faintly in the stillness of the night.

The moment feels like an eternity as he waits for a response, his heart drumming wildly in his chest. Then, he hears the click of the lock, and the door slowly creaks open, revealing the princess behind it. She is wearing a long, white linen nightgown, her hair down and flowing over her shoulders, the locks framing her face like a curtain. Her cheeks have a hint of a blush as she gazes up at him, the two of them standing silently in the doorway. She is like a vision from a dream, an angel in the flesh.

When she whispers a single word, "hi…" it breaks him out of his trance. He swallows hard and steps a little closer, his voice coming out low and rough.

"Hey..."

"You... want to come in..?" He swallows thickly, his heart in his throat. He nods wordlessly, his eyes flickering down to her nightgown and back up to her face. He moves to step into the room, his large form filling the doorway as he passes through it into her chambers. His gaze wanders to the bed, the silken curtains of the canopy framing it as shadows dance in the dim light of the flickering candles. He can feel the thick, heavy smell of frankincense filling his nostrils, mixed with the sweet scent of her perfume and her own natural fragrance. The entire atmosphere is strangely intimate and quiet, the silence broken only by their soft footsteps.

As he turns back to look at her, he notices her fiddling with one of the tendrils of hair that falls over her shoulder, twisting it around her finger. Her eyes are fixated on his, her gaze shy and tentative. The silence between them is almost palpable, broken only by the sound of the faint crackle of the burning candles. He’s intensely aware of her every movement, her every breath, her every flutter of a lash.

"I… I wanted to see you," he says quietly, his eyes never leaving her face. "I couldn't stay away." She looks at him intently, her lips parted slightly, the shadows on her face shifting in soft, gentle lines. She takes a small step closer to him, the fabric of her nightgown hugging her form tantalizingly as her small, soft hand reaches for his. His own hands tremble with the effort it takes to keep himself from pulling her right into his arms and crushing her against him. He lets himself be led over to the bed, his heart in his throat, and sits down next to her, the mattress dipping under his weight. The bed is soft and plump, the blankets beneath them fluffy and clean, the silk canopy over them stirring faintly in the air current.

He can feel the warmth of her beside him, their thighs almost touching as they sit on the edge of the bed. She smiles softly.

"I'm happy you're here..." He can feel a sudden lump in his throat.

"I'm happy to be here." He murmurs back, his words low and rough. He watches as she moves over to her vanity, her slender fingers gently picking up a hairbrush amongst all her creams, combs, and cosmetics.

“Will you brush my hair?” She returns to sit down next to him, he glances at the brush in her hand and nods slowly.

"Sure... I'll brush your hair," he murmurs, his palm itching with the urge to touch her locks. He reaches for the brush, his hand closing around the handle with a firm yet gentle grip. His movements are slow and deliberate, each action imbued with a careful intent. As he draws the brush through her long, knee-length hair, his eyes remain fixed on her face, tracing the delicate features illuminated by the soft light. The brush glides through her hair with an almost ethereal grace, the silken strands slipping effortlessly through his fingers like cool, liquid silk. He begins to work through her tresses with soft, rhythmic strokes, each pass of the brush a tender caress. The touch of his hand is gentle, almost reverent, as if he is handling something precious and fragile. The room around them fades into the background, leaving only the soothing sensation of the brush and the tender intimacy of the moment.

"I never let anyone handle my hair... Not my handmaidens, or anyone.” His chest tightens slightly at her words, the weight of their meaning settling in his heart. She never allowed anyone else to touch her hair, only him? His fingers move gently through her strands, his touch as gentle as a breeze.

"No one..?" He murmurs, his voice low and rough.

"No... Not since I was a young child." Oleksandr continues to brush her hair, her words settling in his mind like stones sinking to the bottom of a lake. No one has touched her hair for years… Only him. He gently pulls the brush through a stubborn tangle of her hair, careful not to snag or break a precious strand, his fingers grazing her nape in the process. He can feel her subtle shiver at his touch, her shoulders tensing for an instant and then relaxing again. He lets a few moments of silence pass between them, his own heartbeat a loud drumbeat in his ears, before he speaks again.

"Why haven't you let anyone touch your hair?"

"My mother was the only one who ever took care of my hair. She loved my hair. When my big brother died, she got sick… Father thinks she died of a broken heart. I decided nobody else would touch it again after her... Not until I meet someone whom I believe to be worthy."

"And you believe... I'm worthy?" He asks, his voice low and almost awed. Her hair slides through his fingertips like silk, the brush caressing her locks effortlessly. Her confession rings in his ears, and he feels his heart thunder in his chest. He doesn't know what to say, so he simply lets another moment of silence pass before he asks, "why do you believe that I am worthy?" She pauses for a moment, as if considering the right words.

"You are so different from anyone else I have ever met..." She responds softly, her voice almost a whisper. "You are not like the... the noblemen and my father’s vassals... You are humble, and noble. Brave and kind. And yet, you are strong and ruthless, with a power within you that I have never seen before in anyone. I feel safe with you… Despite having such might, you are the most gentle with me. " Her words fill his ears like the melody of a song, her voice as sweet and soft as honey.

"Never have my eyes gazed upon a vision as pure and fair as this," he murmurs, his words a reverent whisper. He watches her eyes, their color like liquid gold, and lets himself drown in their depths. He allows her to take the brush from his hands, watching as she moves closer to him on the bed on her knees, her nightgown swaying slightly with her movements. His heart jumps in his chest when she reaches up towards his hair, a hint of surprise in his eyes, before he relaxes under her touch.

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"You have... beautiful hair. I have never seen hair as beautiful as yours." She says softly. He feels a strange shiver through his body as she speaks. He has never thought of his hair being beautiful, but coming from her lips, it sounds almost reverent. He glances at her, his eyes drawn to her face as she continues to brush his hair with slow, tender strokes. "You seem to take good care of it." She says. He smiles faintly as she speaks, the feel of her fingers in his hair almost hypnotic. He nods his head in agreement.

"Yes," he responds quietly. "I have always taken care of my hair... It's important to me."

“I wouldn’t have expected that from a warrior like yourself. Most cut it short for practicality if they don’t neglect it completely.” It is strangely intimate, having her touch him like this. He has never let anyone else touch his hair except his brother, until now.

“What does your hair mean to you?” She asks softly, her fingers working through his platinum gold locks, parting them to pull them into a braid.

“When we were old enough to be… as they would say, useful slaves, our captors would cut our hair off, against our will.” Her hands still for a moment, the shock at his words stopping her momentarily.

“They… they cut your hair?”

“Yes. It was like a show of domination and ownership over our bodies… A way to dehumanize us.”

“That's awful…” She whispers, her hands resuming to work on the braid.

“Once my brother and I started to grow bigger and stronger, it was the first small freedom we fought for. It was the only autonomy we had over our bodies. It was especially meaningful because we were the only ones with hair like this, since we lived among a different ethnic group... It kind of felt like a symbol of the home and kin we never got the chance to know." Her heart aches for him and for his brother, as she listens to his words. The image of children being robbed of every scrap of their dignity, their own bodies used against them, fills her with a mixture of sadness and rage. She braids his hair carefully, gently weaving the strands together with her slender fingers, as if the act itself could comfort him. She finishes the braid and gently pulls it around his shoulder, the pale rope resting against his broad chest.

"I've never seen your hair color before." She murmurs as he turns to face her again. "Or someone who has eyebrows lighter than their skin."

"It's rare," he replies, his voice soft. "It's not as uncommon in my homeland, but most people here have not seen it before. Our hair was pure white, like snow when we were children, before they cut it." The look on her face is one of soft, gentle fondness, her golden eyes fixated on the plait.

He gazes upon her, the delicate Savka, and for a fleeting moment, he is overwhelmed by the profound disparity between them. She is a vision of ethereal beauty, her skin as luminous and pure as polished ivory, her presence a gentle breath of spring’s first bloom. In her, he perceives a softness as alien to him as the distant stars in the night sky. She embodies everything he is not. Pure, tender, untouched by the savagery and bloodshed that have sculpted his existence. He, a figure of rugged strength, forged by a lifetime steeped in the harshness of battle, stands in stark contrast to her serene grace.

Where he is the sun, his hair a blaze of gold and his skin marked bronze by the sun’s relentless embrace, she is like the moon, her face a pale beacon in the twilight, her hair a cascade of inky night. Her aura is a gentle enigma, radiating a calm and mysterious light. His hands, scarred and calloused from years of wielding weapons, have never known the tender art of caressing something so fragile. They have only ever known the weight of steel and the harsh realities of combat. Yet here, in the quiet glow of her presence, he feels a longing for a softness he has never known, a gentle warmth that calls to the deepest recesses of his heart.

As she draws nearer, her fingers brush against his cheek with a touch so delicate, it sends a shiver through him. His heart skips a beat, a sudden flutter of emotion that he can scarcely contain. He closes his eyes, surrendering to the sensation, the feel of her fingertips tracing gentle, soothing patterns upon his skin. It is as if her touch is a balm, easing the rough edges of his soul and bringing a tranquil warmth to his heart. With a tender, almost reverent motion, he lifts his hand to cover hers. His fingers encase her slender digits in a gentle embrace, their grip loose yet filled with unspoken depth. In this simple gesture, he finds a profound connection, a moment of serene intimacy that transcends the chaos of his past and the fierceness of his present.

A charged silence hangs in the air as they unconsciously lean closer, the world around them fading into a quiet blur. His hand moves with a slow, deliberate grace, gently brushing her hair back from her face. The strands, like midnight silk, slip through his fingers as he tucks them behind her ear, his touch lingering.

Their eyes lock, and for a breathless moment, they are lost in each other. His gaze flickers down to her lips, and he sees her own eyes follow suit, tracing the line of his mouth with a yearning mirrored in her own. The tension between them is palpable, a magnetic pull drawing them closer, until the distance between them is a whisper, a mere heartbeat away from surrender.

Their lips meet in a kiss, a soft brush of warmth that ignites the tension simmering between them. The world around them seems to hold its breath as they melt into the moment, the kiss deepening as they give in to the desire that has been building between them. Her lips are soft against his, her body trembling slightly. He pulls her closer, his hand sliding to the nape of her neck, holding her gently as he savors the taste of her, the sweetness that is uniquely hers. She responds with equal fervor, her hands finding their way to his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as if to anchor herself in this moment. Time seems to stand still as they lose themselves in each other, the kiss becoming an unspoken promise, a seal of the bond that has been quietly forming between them. He feels her warmth seep into him, the soft, feminine curve of her body molding perfectly against his broad frame. The kiss deepens, evolving into a slow, sensuous dance of lips and tongues, each movement a tantalizing exploration. A strange, primal desire stirs within him, a fierce hunger to possess her, to claim her as his own. Yet, even as this need awakens, he reins it in, mindful of her fragility, cautious of the strength that lies coiled within him.

His hands, though capable of crushing steel, remain gentle against her, his touch light and reverent. The contrast between her delicate form and his overwhelming power only intensifies the yearning within him, but he resists, determined not to let the beast inside him overpower the tenderness she draws out. Instead, he allows the kiss to linger, savoring the sweetness of this moment, cherishing the trust she places in him as they stand on the edge of something deeper, something that promises to change them both.

He gently guides her down to the bed, laying her beneath him. He hovers over her, supported by his elbow, ensuring that his weight doesn’t overwhelm her. His fingers slide into her soft hair, cradling her head as if she were the most precious thing in the world. To him, she is. As he deepens the kiss, his lips moving with a newfound intensity, he feels the silken strands of her hair slip through his fingers like the night itself. He feels her breath catch as his lips brush against the delicate skin of her neck, leaving a trail of warmth that lingers in the air between them. Each kiss, each tender flick of his tongue, ignites a fire beneath her skin, drawing a soft, involuntary gasp from her lips. He can feel her body arching toward him, her soft, supple curves responding instinctively to his every touch, as if her very being were attuned to his.

The scent of her skin—a captivating blend of sweetness and spice—intoxicates him, filling his senses and driving him to explore her further. Every inhale draws him deeper into her essence, clouding his thoughts with a primitive desire to claim her, to make her entirely his. Yet even in this moment of heightened passion, he moves with care, conscious of her fragility, treasuring the connection that binds them as he savors every intoxicating second. He envelops her with his powerful frame, creating a protective shield around her as his body presses gently against hers. His hand glides slowly up her leg, the warmth of his touch sending shivers through her. With deliberate care, he pushes the hem of her nightdress higher, revealing the soft, bare skin beneath. His lips continue their descent, leaving a trail of heated kisses along the curve of her neck, each one deepening the connection between them.

He undresses her with a reverent touch, haphazardly tossing his own clothing aside, his hands and lips exploring every inch of her body. His kisses trail from her neck to her soft chest, and his tongue follows, savoring the taste of her sensitive skin with a mixture of tenderness and fervor. As he dares to move lower and lower, he licks and tastes her, each caress and touch driven by an intense, all-consuming desire. He hovers over her, his presence commanding and intense. His hands roam over her nude body with a reverent, yet urgent touch, the rough texture of his tan, scarred skin a striking contrast against her milky, untouched flesh. Every glide of his fingers sends ripples of sensation through her, eliciting soft whimpers and shivers that ripple across her delicate form.

Pressing himself firmly against her, he feels her slender legs wrap instinctively around his hips, drawing him closer. The heat between them intensifies, and her responses, those gentle, breathless noises and the trembling beneath him, only serve to heighten his desire. In this moment, their bodies and souls seem to merge, creating an intimate bond that is both primal and profound. He makes love to her for the first time, their bodies entwine in a dance as ancient and inevitable as the cosmos itself.

He chases her as the sun chases the moon, an endless pursuit defined by an unspoken yearning. The moon, radiant in her own pale light, owes her glow to the sun's distant embrace, yet they remain eternally apart. Their paths never converge except in the rare, fleeting moments of an eclipse, a celestial dance where they briefly share the same space, come together, and converge… obscured yet intimately entwined. This is their truth: a love marked by longing, ever reaching but never fully grasping, existing only in those rare and precious intersections of their separate worlds.