Theea
they may say you're too small, you're too young
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
Between his heartbeat, his breathing, and Aria’s weight, it’s becoming difficult to stay conscious. The pain is certainly helping with that, but even that is struggling to battle with the exhaustion of fighting and wounds.
His hand leaves my shoulder, and for a moment, I think he means to let go of me — but then his fingers slip into my thick hair, and I hardly dare to breathe. When he starts to speak, for how quiet he is, I wonder if he even realizes I'm still awake. I don't want to move or speak, afraid he'll spook like a timid animal and stop what he's doing. The feeling of his hand in my hair is soothing and stirring at once, and it's an effort not to keep moving my thumb over his chest, as if that alone would be enough to chase away whatever plagues him — it’s more than just guilt over my wounds.
His hand moves through my hair again, catching on one of the small snags I can never seem to keep out of my hair, no matter how hard I try. For someone with hands like his, he's so gentle I hardly feel a tug when he frees it. I take a slow, careful breath so I don’t disturb my stitches, and I allow myself to focus more on the feeling, the moment, than the worry and the pain.
I let him keep stroking my hair, and it’s hard to stop the faint smile. I don’t know what this is, if this is normal for a close friendship—I’d never even had a friend before making the journey to Torchlin—but it’s warm. Light. Easy. I realize I’ve yet to feel nervous or out of place with Damien.
”You’re not carrying me,” I finally murmur without opening my eyes, nearly asleep, yet stubbornly awake. I move a little into the hand in my hair, hoping he stays that way, that he isn’t so easy to spook. "But Frey is a good idea."
His hand leaves my shoulder, and for a moment, I think he means to let go of me — but then his fingers slip into my thick hair, and I hardly dare to breathe. When he starts to speak, for how quiet he is, I wonder if he even realizes I'm still awake. I don't want to move or speak, afraid he'll spook like a timid animal and stop what he's doing. The feeling of his hand in my hair is soothing and stirring at once, and it's an effort not to keep moving my thumb over his chest, as if that alone would be enough to chase away whatever plagues him — it’s more than just guilt over my wounds.
His hand moves through my hair again, catching on one of the small snags I can never seem to keep out of my hair, no matter how hard I try. For someone with hands like his, he's so gentle I hardly feel a tug when he frees it. I take a slow, careful breath so I don’t disturb my stitches, and I allow myself to focus more on the feeling, the moment, than the worry and the pain.
I let him keep stroking my hair, and it’s hard to stop the faint smile. I don’t know what this is, if this is normal for a close friendship—I’d never even had a friend before making the journey to Torchlin—but it’s warm. Light. Easy. I realize I’ve yet to feel nervous or out of place with Damien.
”You’re not carrying me,” I finally murmur without opening my eyes, nearly asleep, yet stubbornly awake. I move a little into the hand in my hair, hoping he stays that way, that he isn’t so easy to spook. "But Frey is a good idea."
