A Love That Is Mine 9

Strike Witches-fanfic. Sanya on the subject of love, home, belonging and future, which are all spelled Eila.
Ninth part in a series of short stories.
(Eila/Sanya)

Read A Love That Is Mine 9

Disclaimer: All things Strike Witches belong to Gonzo and a bunch of others, though I’m sure I’m not hurting anything by borrowing them for a bit.

This is the ninth part in the “A Love That Is Mine”-series.

I briefly mention something in this story which suggests that the girls got to keep their striker units with them after the team got disbanded. That doesn't really seem likely to me, but since some of the girls are still wearing theirs in the end snippet of the show I left that bit in. Please ignore it if it doesn't make sense to you.




A Love That Is Mine 9

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson





The first time we met I looked into her eyes and had the strangest feeling that I had come home.

At the time I had travelled very far and for quite some time, my home was enemy territory and the location of my family was unknown, although I thankfully had just been informed that they were alive. The part of the military that had evacuated my group from the smoking ruins of my part of the country had quickly packed me up and sent me onward to the front where I was going to fight whether I wanted to or not. No choice had ever been given me, and I was scared of what I would find at my destination.

They had shown me files of the rest of the squadron, with names and pictures of those currently at the base, but I was too anxious to focus on them. I clutched my toy, the only piece of the past I managed to save, to my chest and tried not to feel quite so numb as I was passed from one type of vehicle to another until finally we had arrived.

I had seen her picture but it did her no justice. The moment I looked up from the tarmac I looked right into eyes such a dark and stormy blue-grey that they immediately made me think of rain back home, before the destruction. I could even hear the sound of gentle raindrops on the earth when she stepped up to take my hand in hers.

It would take some time before I realized that the sound I heard was actually the sound of her heart.

She charmed me from the start, and I don’t think she meant to. She was, and is, just so brave and strong and kind and wonderful that to know her is to love her. I did not think of love back then, it did not occur to me and I did not know at the time that I was old enough to experience such things. I did however know from that very first moment that we belonged together, like two pieces of a puzzle made to fit together seamlessly.

There was something about her that drew me to her, all the time and regardless of where she was or what she was doing. It amused me to think that we were like these tiny magnets I had used to play with when I was little, how they would immediately snap to one another when I released them. We were drawn together in much the same way, and although back then I had no conscious thoughts of romance I did still have a longing to be that seamless, perfect whole together with her.

She helped me fit in with our comrades and took care of me, and life was good despite the battles we had to fight and despite that I did not know where mama and papa where. I grew more confident, stronger and surer in my abilities, and once our leaders decided that I was strong enough and skilled enough they began sending me out at night, alone. That I did not like.

I love the night, but after meeting her I no longer like to be alone. I want to be with her.

Thoughts of her kept me company when she herself could not, and my spirit always felt lighter as I returned to base with the early dawn for I knew she would be there. I would go to her door to press myself against it and use my abilities to hear and sense her through it. I would stay like that until the steady sounds of her slumber relaxed me enough that I too could sleep, and then I would fumble my way over to my own room and my own solitary bed.

I could not give words to my joy when eventually that door opened to me and I could lie down next to her. She is so warm, even in the middle of the coldest night, and I always long with every fibre of my being to press up against her in whatever way I may, to melt into her.

There were reasons and excuses to begin with, for why I would sleep in her bed rather than my own. Many times she told me in a voice she struggled so hard to make exasperated yet never really succeeded, that I should not mistake her room for my own when I went to bed. Just as I always knew that she did not mind my presence there at all I am sure she always knew that I did not find my way to her bed by mistake. Sometimes it took the very last of my strength to get to her, but it was always my intention to reach her side.

Eventually, finally, she let me know that the excuses were no longer necessary. I was let inside her room to stay, and we allowed ourselves to stop pretending.

From that night onward she has held me close as we sleep, every single time. With my ear so close to her heart I did not need to use my abilities, I could clearly hear the wonderful sound of her heartbeat and together with her breathing it lulls me to peaceful sleep better than any lullaby ever could.

Since I was a little girl my favourite song was always the one papa wrote about the rain, but no longer. The sound I treasure most of all is her beautiful voice, and the most incredible song I know is the sound of her heart. I hope to hear both for the rest of my life, and one day I intend to use the piano help me make her hear at least a fraction of what I do when with her.

A few days after I moved into her room we shared our first kiss. I had wanted her to kiss me for some time, but did not know how one goes about initiating such a thing. I have always had difficulty putting words to my longing, but she understands me anyway.

The first brush of those soft, silken lips changed me. I, who up until then had been largely oblivious to anything that was not her, I found myself taking note of my surroundings suddenly, jealously making sure no one would come too close or be too familiar with her. I also found myself blushing oddly from her touch or her closeness at times.

Then our group was disbanded and our friends were sent away to places we were not to follow.

It had never occurred to me that if for some reason our team would be retired or my specific services no longer needed, I would be taken away. It never crossed my mind that she would be recalled to her home without me, and I would be taken somewhere far away in what remains of my homeland, my opinion of the location as unasked for as before.

Our leader intervened, made the arrangements so that I could continue to stay with the one that was everything to me. She pulled us aside during the confusion near the end of our stay at the base and explained it to us, officially handing me over into the care of my love. She seemed surprised when I hugged her in thanks, and after that a pair of strong warm arms wrapped around me, clearly determined not to let me go. I found I was perfectly happy to leave the base.

Her home, when we reached it, was and is to me like she herself; simply home. Everything is very similar to where I grew up, and I discovered to my surprise that I had missed the colder, clearer night skies of the north. I found myself looking forward to odd little things, like the scent of pine or the sound of snow crunching under my feet.

Most of all I love her home because it is hers, and because it is I wished to discover everything about it. She took me to all her favourite places, showed me where she had played as a little girl and where she liked to go as she grew older. We would often take walks in the moonlight or go on nightly flights underneath the stars just because we felt like it. It was wonderful.

We eventually took that final step in our relationship in a secluded glen at one of her favourite secret places, where the ground was covered in thick, soft moss and we were far away from any prying eyes. It was perfect and beautiful and she was so happy she cried afterwards, while I held her close and swore to myself that nothing will ever take me away from her.

The word love had not yet passed either of our lips at that time, though I did not quite grasp the impact of such words then, content as I was that we showed our love for one another in actions instead. It took but a little while longer before I would be made aware of the importance of words.

Since we first met we had been mutually struggling to learn the other’s native language. Although she claims that I speak her language fairly well she sounds funny when speaking mine, still my native tongue has never sounded quite as charming as when spoken in her slightly lilting way.

Somehow I had gotten unaccustomed to hearing my own language spoken since I crossed the borders for the first time, and so when I moved through the rooms and hallways of our home to hear a familiar voice haltingly speak in that tongue the words themselves did not register with me. Curious as to why my love was speaking this way when I was not with her I followed the sound to our bedroom door without her noticing me.

At first I could not comprehend what she was doing.

As far as I could tell she was addressing my papa, even though she of course was alone in the room and my father still at some unknown location a nation away, and she paced as she was doing it. After a few circuits back and forth across the bedroom floor, arms moving wildly to emphasize something from time to time and head shaking occasionally, I finally realized it.

She was practicing a speech she intended for when she would meet my papa, a speech in which she with slightly broken words and funny pronunciations would declare to him her love for me, that her intentions where I was concerned were honourable, and that she would take good care of me and cherish me always.

By the time she had gotten to the part where she explained that she would marry me if only she could find a place in the world where such a thing was allowed, I stumbled into the room with tears in my eyes.

Not noticing me at first she continued her conversation with my absent papa, assuring him that she would be a good wife for me, then she stopped and had a little argument with herself whether she should say wife or husband, and that is when she noticed me.

She blushed a bright red as I threw my arms around her and told her that I love her too. For good measure I said it in all three languages before the dam burst and I clung to her, burying my head into her shoulder.

It was my time to cry, overcome with joy, and hers to hold and offer loving comfort. Since then we have both made sure that words follow actions and no part of this wonderful, beautiful love we share goes unexpressed.

One day I am sure she will get her chance to make her case to my papa, if that is what she wants. It makes little difference, although I am sure he would appreciate it, for the opinions and decisions of others does not matter. She has my answer already, in a way she has had my answer since that first time our eyes met.

We belong together.

And I am completely and utterly hers.