She almost doesn’t know what he means when he asks her. What he could possibly be trying to find out if she did. When she realizes that he was referring to the moonlight, she just smiles. It’s difficult to remember that such things are conscious acts—that she chooses to send forth the light toward him and then recoil it back into her chest. It was difficult to remember that not everyone lived in the world that she did where the moonlight was as simple as one’s own touch, as easy as breathing.
But she doesn’t laugh or shrug off his question.
She just nods.
And then frowns when he steps back, his face drawn up in lines of his nerves. She takes a step forward, unable to stop herself, unable to stay away when everything that he is feeling is shown so clearly on his face. The air around them vibrates with it and she wonders if he knows that all of that is like an open wound, the edges so raw and so angry that she wonders if he is able to sleep or find reprieve.
“We’re in the forest,” she says softly, her rich voice barely above a whisper.
“Would you like to talk?”
She angles her head, so finely shaped, the crooked horn set between large eyes.
“My name is Cressida. I can start, if you’d like.”
meet me where the falling stars live
@lannister