So he was banking upon the fact that, if he did reach the Chosen, she wouldn't know his true identity.
He was also forcing himself to push aside any guilt at the position he was putting her in.
Before he closed his eyes, he looked around again. There were deer at the far edge of the meadow by the forest of trees, their delicate hooves brushing through fallen leaves, their heads bobbing as they meandered along. An owl sounded off to the right, the hooting carried upon the light, cold breeze to his perked ears. Far in front of him, on a road that he could not see, a pair of headlights drifted along, likely a farm truck.
No lessers.
No Brothers.
No one but him.
Lowering his lids, he pictured the Chosen and recaptured those moments when her blood was going into him, reviving him, calling him back from the brink his life had trembled upon. He saw her with great clarity and focused on the taste and the scent of her, the very essence of who she was.
And then he prayed, prayed as he never had before, even when he had lived a civilized life. He prayed so hard his brows tightened and his heart pounded and he couldn't breathe. He prayed with a desperation that left a part of him wondering whether this was to save Xcor. . . or simply so he could see her once again.
He prayed until he lost his train of words and all he had was a feeling in his chest, a howling need that he could only hope was a strong enough signal for her to respond to, if she indeed got it.
Throe kept it up for as long as he could, until he was numb and cold and so exhausted his head hung no longer out of reverence, but out of tiredness.
He kept at it until the persistent silence around him intruded upon his quest. . . and told him that he had to accept failure.
When he finally reopened his eyes, he found that moonlight had sneaked under the canopy he sat beneath, the sun's opposite having arrived for its evening shift of watching o'er the earth -
His shout echoed loud as he jumped to his feet.
'Twas not the moon that was the cause of the light.
His Chosen was standing afore him, her robing of such a bright white, it appeared to throw off its own illumination.
Her hands extended forth as if to calm him. "I am sorry to startle you. "
"No! No, no, it's fine - I. . . You are here. "
"Did you not summon me?" She appeared confused. "I was not sure what called me forth. I. . . simply had this urge to come here. And there you were. "
"I didn't know if it would work. "
"Well, it did. " At this, she smiled at him.
Oh, sweet Virgin Scribe in the great heavens above, she was beautiful, her hair all coiled up high upon her head, her form so willowy and elegant, her scent. . . ambrosia.
She frowned and looked down at herself. "Am I not properly covered?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You stare. "
"Oh, indeed, I am. . . Please forgive me. My manners have been forgotten - because you are too lovely for mine eyes to comprehend. "
That made her recoil ever so slightly. As if she were unused to compliments - or mayhap he had offended her.
"I'm sorry," he said - before wanting to curse himself. His vocabulary was going to have to expand past apologies. Fast. And it would help if he didn't behave like a schoolboy in her presence. "I mean no disrespect. "
Now she smiled again, a stunning display of happiness. "I believe you in that, soldier. I suppose I'm simply surprised. "
That he found her attractive? Good Lord. . .
Reclaiming his past as a genteel member of the glymera, Throe bowed low. "You honor me by your presence, Chosen. "