cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm
If she had the ability to see herself through his eyes, to say she would’ve been shocked is an understatement. Truthfully, she had never considered herself particularly attractive or kind-hearted. No, when she claimed to be ‘just Brazen’, there is no humble sentiment behind, nor any feigned simplicity. As far as she knew, there was nothing terribly special about her beyond the cage of bone that frames her body. She may not have the same cold calculation of her mother or wear anger like armor as her father does, but she is far from selflessly kind.
So far from angelic or queenly it may as well be laughable.
Whether fortunate or unfortunate, she remains entirely oblivious to the thoughts that run through Corban’s mind as they exchange playful banter. Indeed, she has little idea that there may be more than feelings of friendship here until Corban takes an opportunity she hadn’t even realized she’d presented.
When his muzzle traces her shoulder, she leans almost absently into the touch. For a moment, as he presses against her, green and white against bone and blood-stained red and white, she can only blink at him. Almost absently, she wonders at what he was thinking. Did he not realize her blood would stain the lovely, unmarred brightness of his coat?
Still, she does not pull away, even though she likely should. Enjoying the press of his warmth against hers, equally familiar and foreign at the same time.
It takes her a moment to recall what he’d been saying to her, and when she does, she quickly glances away, a bit chagrined. “That’s kind of you to say Corban,” she replies, a faint trail of hesitance edging her voice. She pauses then, not quite sure how to put into words her misgivings. The worries that had plagued her since she was little more than a child. “I’m not sure… that my heart knows what it wants though.”
Brazen
