you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody
At first the sound outside the door barely registers as real, just another echo in the strange, weightless stillness that has settled over her since the attack. And then the voice comes, low and rough-edged, pushed through the gap in the door by force of will alone, and it strikes her like lightning breaking through a summer haze.
She doesn’t move right away, but that voice—his voice—pulls her from the fog more effectively than any healer’s spell or mother’s care, and she finds herself pushing upright with a faint gasp caught behind her teeth. Every breath feels like it catches on barbs, her back flinching beneath the whisper of silk, but she holds herself still until she can breathe again without trembling.
The door is already ajar when she reaches it, swaying faintly in the wake of the impact, and her fingers curl around its edge with the caution of someone opening a wound. When she pulls it open, the light from the hallway spills across her bare feet and onto the polished floor, and in its wake stands Jack Barclay, windswept and furious, as if he had torn through sky and sea alike just to get to her, which…surely not?
Turning slightly, she addresses the guards with quiet authority, her voice hoarse and faint from days of silence but no less certain for it. “He’s fine,” she murmurs. “He can come in.” Flora moves across the room with the same hesitant grace she always has after something breaks inside her, each step slow and deliberate, her balance subtly off from the pain she refuses to show. At the small cart nestled beside the window, she pours herself a glass of water, the pitcher cool against her fingertips, and brings the glass to her chest as if she means to warm it there. ”Y’know, I’m pretty sure there are rooms specifically made to cater towards fighting.”
She doesn’t move right away, but that voice—his voice—pulls her from the fog more effectively than any healer’s spell or mother’s care, and she finds herself pushing upright with a faint gasp caught behind her teeth. Every breath feels like it catches on barbs, her back flinching beneath the whisper of silk, but she holds herself still until she can breathe again without trembling.
The door is already ajar when she reaches it, swaying faintly in the wake of the impact, and her fingers curl around its edge with the caution of someone opening a wound. When she pulls it open, the light from the hallway spills across her bare feet and onto the polished floor, and in its wake stands Jack Barclay, windswept and furious, as if he had torn through sky and sea alike just to get to her, which…surely not?
Turning slightly, she addresses the guards with quiet authority, her voice hoarse and faint from days of silence but no less certain for it. “He’s fine,” she murmurs. “He can come in.” Flora moves across the room with the same hesitant grace she always has after something breaks inside her, each step slow and deliberate, her balance subtly off from the pain she refuses to show. At the small cart nestled beside the window, she pours herself a glass of water, the pitcher cool against her fingertips, and brings the glass to her chest as if she means to warm it there. ”Y’know, I’m pretty sure there are rooms specifically made to cater towards fighting.”
