03-09-2020, 10:12 AM
I’ve never been one for . . . Brun starts to think, gemstone eyes floating to the glow of the moon and then back down to the light her magic’s glow casts on the surrounding grass. Been one for what? Any sort of pleasantries? Or any kind of base happiness? She knows that from the moment she was born, she was a hellraiser. The color of fire with an attitude to match, it was no wonder her parents could barely keep a hold on her.
But even if they could, did they try? No, not particularly. And Hildy suffers from it to this day.
Brigade reminds her of such things—neglectful parents, the fluttering hope of rarely bestowed pride, and simply because she cannot help herself—she hopes he is proud of her, too. If only those stormy eyes might break apart to reveal some secret, loving man. If only she could dig down deep into his chest and pull out the rich soil feeding his jungle heart. Perhaps he could show her the secret to never truly revealing who she is. And perhaps they might wallow together, still somehow in quiet solitude, neither loving the other but understanding what it is like to shatter against one’s own rocky shore.
I’m sorry, too.
Brunhilde dies on that sword. Three words that strike through her flesh to find a home in her heart. Rarely does she allow herself to feel sorry, much less say it, and for the sentiment to be returned? Brun fumbles, replaying Brigade’s voice over and over again. She breathes away the tension of expecting some sly rebuttal. She leans just an inch closer, muscles relaxing enough for her body to fall fluidly into the motion.
Silence stretches, then finally, Brunhilde softly laughs.
“I thought I would die before I apologized to a man,” she murmurs, settling a mostly amused gaze on Brigade. “I suppose I’m glad you’re the one to prove me wrong.” She can’t tell him why she’s glad, she just knows that she is.
“Who did you hurt to bring you here?” Brun asks. Her eyes find the lightest shade of gentility, even as she assumes he won’t tell her. At least she can offer him the idea of companionship.
But even if they could, did they try? No, not particularly. And Hildy suffers from it to this day.
Brigade reminds her of such things—neglectful parents, the fluttering hope of rarely bestowed pride, and simply because she cannot help herself—she hopes he is proud of her, too. If only those stormy eyes might break apart to reveal some secret, loving man. If only she could dig down deep into his chest and pull out the rich soil feeding his jungle heart. Perhaps he could show her the secret to never truly revealing who she is. And perhaps they might wallow together, still somehow in quiet solitude, neither loving the other but understanding what it is like to shatter against one’s own rocky shore.
I’m sorry, too.
Brunhilde dies on that sword. Three words that strike through her flesh to find a home in her heart. Rarely does she allow herself to feel sorry, much less say it, and for the sentiment to be returned? Brun fumbles, replaying Brigade’s voice over and over again. She breathes away the tension of expecting some sly rebuttal. She leans just an inch closer, muscles relaxing enough for her body to fall fluidly into the motion.
Silence stretches, then finally, Brunhilde softly laughs.
“I thought I would die before I apologized to a man,” she murmurs, settling a mostly amused gaze on Brigade. “I suppose I’m glad you’re the one to prove me wrong.” She can’t tell him why she’s glad, she just knows that she is.
“Who did you hurt to bring you here?” Brun asks. Her eyes find the lightest shade of gentility, even as she assumes he won’t tell her. At least she can offer him the idea of companionship.
@[brigade]
