10-12-2018, 04:52 PM
“He would have to be,” I answer, but my tone is distracted, so focused am I on the rapidly narrowing space between us. There is a brief quiver of fear, but I let it be. It fizzles away without interference, and I breathe out a quiet sigh. It is relief, certainly, but it is also release of a deep breath of preparation, and perhaps a shadow of desire. That alone is unfamiliar, a novelty of an emotion that flickers freely about my iron-bound mine. I can feel the heat of the yellow stallion’s against the chill of the cavern air, and I lean into it.
“There’s nothing between Arthas and I.” I tell him, feeling the brush of his lips against mine when I speak, “Nothing like, well,” I lean forward, pulling a long violet tail hair from where it rests on Wolfbane, “like that. Not anymore.” Not since I had shaken myself out of my post-traumatic shock, during which I’d done only what was necessary to survive, and that was to ensure that the child I bore would reasonably be believed to be my husband’s.
It’s been almost two years of skirting around the truth, of ducking Arthas’ caresses when they threaten to turn amorous, of avoiding him entirely at times with the (valid) excuse of diplomatic necessity. Two years of turning over a problem in my mind, of acknowledging that it was even a problem at all. My parents had been in a loveless marriage after all – at least on my father’s part. My mother had loved him – that much had always been clear – but if he’d loved her back, he’d have never left. I had never expected anything more for myself. I was fond of Arthas, I found him pleasant, but there is no denying that I had never felt this.
Whatever this is.
It emboldens me, that is certain. I had kept my tone light at the purple reminder he had been with another mare not terribly long ago, but I had not liked it. (Even admitting this to myself is a revelation, though it shouldn’t be). It makes me brave enough to return my muzzle to his now-bare shoulder, to press up closer until the hollow of my chest is pressed against his side. It might be easier to not look at him when I speak, I think, but I find that instead I am distracted by the sensation of our touch.
“I’d come home,” I tell him, and it doesn’t even occur to me that I should consider Sylva my home now, “I’d be with you if you’d...if you’d be with me too. With...just me.” I press my muzzle against the last bristles of his pale mane, moving them out of place just to watch them spring back again. Anything to avoid focusing on the blackness that grows with each millisecond before his reply.
:|
@[Wolfbane]
“There’s nothing between Arthas and I.” I tell him, feeling the brush of his lips against mine when I speak, “Nothing like, well,” I lean forward, pulling a long violet tail hair from where it rests on Wolfbane, “like that. Not anymore.” Not since I had shaken myself out of my post-traumatic shock, during which I’d done only what was necessary to survive, and that was to ensure that the child I bore would reasonably be believed to be my husband’s.
It’s been almost two years of skirting around the truth, of ducking Arthas’ caresses when they threaten to turn amorous, of avoiding him entirely at times with the (valid) excuse of diplomatic necessity. Two years of turning over a problem in my mind, of acknowledging that it was even a problem at all. My parents had been in a loveless marriage after all – at least on my father’s part. My mother had loved him – that much had always been clear – but if he’d loved her back, he’d have never left. I had never expected anything more for myself. I was fond of Arthas, I found him pleasant, but there is no denying that I had never felt this.
Whatever this is.
It emboldens me, that is certain. I had kept my tone light at the purple reminder he had been with another mare not terribly long ago, but I had not liked it. (Even admitting this to myself is a revelation, though it shouldn’t be). It makes me brave enough to return my muzzle to his now-bare shoulder, to press up closer until the hollow of my chest is pressed against his side. It might be easier to not look at him when I speak, I think, but I find that instead I am distracted by the sensation of our touch.
“I’d come home,” I tell him, and it doesn’t even occur to me that I should consider Sylva my home now, “I’d be with you if you’d...if you’d be with me too. With...just me.” I press my muzzle against the last bristles of his pale mane, moving them out of place just to watch them spring back again. Anything to avoid focusing on the blackness that grows with each millisecond before his reply.
:|
@[Wolfbane]
