cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm
The sharp crack of the stranger’s words draw her attention, diffusing the abrupt readiness of her body to engage an unseen enemy. She blinks once, twice, before turning her gaze to the russet girl standing so stiffly nearby, a faint confusion growing in a gaze only partially masked by bone. There is anger simmering deeply within this girl, a fact so obviously seen. Something that burns with an intensity equal to her skin for all that her words do not actually injure flesh.
“I…” she begins slowly, not entirely certain how to respond, “suppose you are.”
It does not even cross her mind that stepping closer might actually be dangerous. That her unexpected companion might fear what would happen far more than she might fear anything that might chase her. Brazen had always offered touch so freely, without thought or reservation, that it takes a moment for the woman’s unyielding demand to register.
She stills abruptly, head lifting as her brows furrow beneath the bone obscuring her face, ears twitching uncertainly atop her skull. She stares at her, her steady breathing a contrast to that of her new companion. It’s not often Brazen is caught off guard. So much so that she isn’t entirely certain how to respond in the face of such directionless hostility.
After a hesitant breath, she steps back, giving the red mare the space she’d asked for. Her blue eyes are still warily confused, but she visibly seems to collect herself, picking up the slack reins of the conversation they had each dropped between them. “Well,” she begins anew, her voice stronger now, more certain. “If you want to run, I won’t stop you. Although, you’ll be sore in the morning if you keep up like that.”
Her lips twitch faintly at the last, her natural humor reasserting itself with startling ease. A glint of humor slips across her features, gleaming in the blue of her eyes, lifting the mobile corners of her mouth. “Worse, if you run into a tree while you’re at it.”
Brazen
