With no one wearing their real face It's a whiteout of emotion
Her head whipped around, and for a moment it was no woman who stood there, but some wild creature, all nervous tension as she weighed in a split second between whether to fight or flee. He surprised her; the wind whispering over broken teeth, through hollow jaws and shifting sand had muffled his footsteps, and with the thoughtful comment it was clear he'd heard her quiet confessions. It was too dark to see clearly what hue the blush held, but it was there in her cheeks when she straightened; drawing up like pride was a mantle she wrapped around her slender frame, like the black of her dress needed any help with affirming her dignity. Like a cat once the hackles had settled along its spine.
"Don't let me stop you," she replied, perfectly polite despite the reservation in her tone. Hers was a low, misty kind of voice, better suited for soft whispers and murmured confidences; it strained to make it across the distance, to cut over the wind and her own thundering heartbeat. "I was all but done, anyway."
For a second her gaze fell to the piece of bone in his hands, then drifted off. Less curious about his offering than the off-hand comment; that did linger with her, even as she began to walk away, to grant this stranger the privacy she had been denied.
"Don't let me stop you," she replied, perfectly polite despite the reservation in her tone. Hers was a low, misty kind of voice, better suited for soft whispers and murmured confidences; it strained to make it across the distance, to cut over the wind and her own thundering heartbeat. "I was all but done, anyway."
For a second her gaze fell to the piece of bone in his hands, then drifted off. Less curious about his offering than the off-hand comment; that did linger with her, even as she began to walk away, to grant this stranger the privacy she had been denied.
And I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
Maea
