08-21-2021, 08:28 PM
with rushing thread of brazen spindles.
It is not that she is innocent, Neuna.
Nor is she particularly naive.
This is not why she does not immediately notice the darkness in his expression.
It is because he is ringed in such a brilliant light that it takes several seconds for her to get a clear look at his face at all.
It is not until he speaks, his tone scathing, that she finally gets a good read on his mood. (Or, perhaps, it is not a mood but his personality.)
If she were innocent or naive or a soft, fragile thing, she would have shrunk in the face of his fury. But she just goes on looking at him, smiling patiently still. (But she can feel the brilliant glow of love in the center of her chest begin to dim, little by little, like it is a physical thing.)
Her father is a cruel thing, too, even if his cruelty is not born of this kind of disparaging hatred. She goes on studying him a beat longer, considering his question. She makes no attempt to move any closer but she also makes no effort to remove herself from his space. He had not asked her to leave.
If he had said yes?
“I’d have begged your pardon and found someplace else to quench my thirst,” she says and nods, pleased with her answer. She can practically hear the wolf in the shadows roll its eyes. (The wolf is fond of this stallion’s cutting tone and harsh language and tells her as much, tells her that she could learn a thing or two from him but she does not listen. She is a thing built of love, not hate.)
She turns her gaze to the water then, as if that is the end of it. She takes a step closer to the water’s edge and then stops short, casting those white eyes back to him then, her brow furrowing softly.
“And it does matter,” she tells him. “I think it matters. You deserve your peace just as much as anyone else.”
Nor is she particularly naive.
This is not why she does not immediately notice the darkness in his expression.
It is because he is ringed in such a brilliant light that it takes several seconds for her to get a clear look at his face at all.
It is not until he speaks, his tone scathing, that she finally gets a good read on his mood. (Or, perhaps, it is not a mood but his personality.)
If she were innocent or naive or a soft, fragile thing, she would have shrunk in the face of his fury. But she just goes on looking at him, smiling patiently still. (But she can feel the brilliant glow of love in the center of her chest begin to dim, little by little, like it is a physical thing.)
Her father is a cruel thing, too, even if his cruelty is not born of this kind of disparaging hatred. She goes on studying him a beat longer, considering his question. She makes no attempt to move any closer but she also makes no effort to remove herself from his space. He had not asked her to leave.
If he had said yes?
“I’d have begged your pardon and found someplace else to quench my thirst,” she says and nods, pleased with her answer. She can practically hear the wolf in the shadows roll its eyes. (The wolf is fond of this stallion’s cutting tone and harsh language and tells her as much, tells her that she could learn a thing or two from him but she does not listen. She is a thing built of love, not hate.)
She turns her gaze to the water then, as if that is the end of it. She takes a step closer to the water’s edge and then stops short, casting those white eyes back to him then, her brow furrowing softly.
“And it does matter,” she tells him. “I think it matters. You deserve your peace just as much as anyone else.”
@Ashhal