oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
In the same way that her mind convinces herself that he must see something wrong with her, he does the same with his own. He is sure that she must see into his heart and see the failures. She must look into him and know that he has let his family down. That he lives within a land that attacked his father and mother and siblings. That he didn’t lift the sword toward either side and what a coward he must be for it.
It makes him defensive, makes him angry, and he scowls against the imagined attacks.
The shame and the judgment and—worst of all—the pity she would point in his direction.
He wants to push her away before she has the chance to push him away and he is only surprised when she pushes forward instead. Surprised and then furious when she pokes at his worst insecurities. His ears flip back to press into the tangles of his wine red head, lips peeling back from his blunt teeth. “I’m not hiding from anything,” he growls, his voice thick in his mouth, gravelly from where it comes from his chest.
His storm eyes narrow at her, studying her from behind the tangle of his forelock. “Maybe you’re the one who is hiding, Brinly.” He doesn’t step toward her, cannot bring himself to be so brave, but neither does he step away from her—even though he is certain that the air is now warmer. But that must certainly be his own mind playing tricks on him. “So what are you hiding from?”
Brigade studies her face, memorizing the lines of it and focusing on stoking the anger in his belly further if only because it is so much easier to be mad than it is to be hurt and confused and lost.
So very lost.
@[Brinly]