White Eagle's Touch
““I love you,” he said. She reclined on his lap, looking at him through the haze of darkness. She ran her hands into his long hair, her fingers touching the owl’s feather that dangled from one of his locks.
She touched her fingers to his cheek, tracing over his high cheekbones, grasping the cool smoothness of the shells that were also strung in his hair. She whispered, “White Eagle, I love you too, though I fear, if you go away, we may have no future with one another.”
“Sh-h-h. We have already had this argument.”
“But…”
“No more tonight.”
“All right.” She smiled and nodded. “Not tonight.”
He relaxed back against the wall of the room. “Do you know when I first started loving you?”
“No, when?”
“I think when you were three years old. You used to follow me, and imitate me.
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