cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm
Fear is something that had never truly plagued Brazen. In youth, the world had been too wide and wonderful for fear to find it’s way into her heart. And then, on that fateful morning she had dragged her brother into the quest that would change her understanding of life, everything had been too overwhelming to truly understand fear. Afterwards, she had spent the remainder of her childhood knowing exactly what she had to look forward to. But even then, she hadn’t known fear. After all, her father had braved the same things, day after day. Certainly she could too.
Now, she had spent years living in her own skin, knowing exactly how bone aches as it grows, understanding the sharp, slicing pain of skin as splits and tears, the bubbling of blood tinged by the scent of copper. It’s hard to fear much else when pain has become the definition of one’s entire life.
In the end, the burn and ache of her own muscles is a much better distraction that the splitting of skin.
Dancing back a few steps, the sheepish grin plastered to her lips, it takes her a moment to register the fear in her new companion’s wild eyes and the muscles tensed for flight. She slows, her movements becoming immediately more subdued, the bright energy of her breathless greeting settling as she realizes she’d quite frightened her.
It takes everything in her to resist stepping closer. To offer the friendly comfort that is so often her first instinct. Blue eyes softening behind the mask shadowing her face, her grin eases, gentling almost unconsciously. “I am sorry, I really didn’t mean to startle you,” she offers again, hoping she would read the sincerity in her apology. “I hope I didn’t interrupt any too important thoughts.” Her eyes crinkle in faint amusement as she continues, “I would hate to think I just derailed the next big treaty for peace or something.”
Brazen
