[ he could have compelled her. had she been on vervain that night? had it left her system? he could have snapped her neck, bit her, tore her to pieces; he could have done anything, but he did this. only this? he softened her with caresses, with kiss, with twisted intimacies. was that his end, to instill in them both fear? to practice his power and fool them both, when and where he could?
or was it more? what did they take?
it is this, regardless: a warning, a demonstration. the terror of it lodges in his throat, looking at her, touching her, each moment he does a respite as if each second will assure him she is here and she is in one piece. the relief of her denials is followed by the anxiety of his worries. it's followed by the unspent and foddering rage inside of him, working his jaw with the crush of its tide.
his fingers slip into her hair; they stay between the wet strands and her soothing touches.
he looks at her, his eyes darting away, his lips pursing as his thoughts race and circle and calculate: how best they tackle this. how best he protect her. she's precious; to him, that is what she is: strong despite the fragility his counterpart will exploit, kind and sharp in ways he can only cherish and awe, nestled in his heart in ways he does not desire to extract. (would it be better for her if he did? he wouldn't take that choice from her. it's too late for that. she's a target.) the next time—
(the idea chokes him.)
next time they might not be so lucky.
his eyes focus in all their intensity on her. he whispers. ] You can't stay here. I can't protect you. [ he didn't. ] There are only so many spells Freya can do. [ she been casting plenty, back in their rooms. even if she casted them here... ]
no subject
or was it more? what did they take?
it is this, regardless: a warning, a demonstration. the terror of it lodges in his throat, looking at her, touching her, each moment he does a respite as if each second will assure him she is here and she is in one piece. the relief of her denials is followed by the anxiety of his worries. it's followed by the unspent and foddering rage inside of him, working his jaw with the crush of its tide.
his fingers slip into her hair; they stay between the wet strands and her soothing touches.
he looks at her, his eyes darting away, his lips pursing as his thoughts race and circle and calculate: how best they tackle this. how best he protect her. she's precious; to him, that is what she is: strong despite the fragility his counterpart will exploit, kind and sharp in ways he can only cherish and awe, nestled in his heart in ways he does not desire to extract. (would it be better for her if he did? he wouldn't take that choice from her. it's too late for that. she's a target.) the next time—
(the idea chokes him.)
next time they might not be so lucky.
his eyes focus in all their intensity on her. he whispers. ] You can't stay here. I can't protect you. [ he didn't. ] There are only so many spells Freya can do. [ she been casting plenty, back in their rooms. even if she casted them here... ]