Wren
I need the clouds to cover me
The shift in him was not obvious at first -- nothing dramatic or loud -- but she caught it anyway. She caught the way his breath caught and held, the tightening in his hands around the mug, pale knuckles standing out like something braced against impact. She thought of the fact that he was a dragoon, and how much damage those hands could do as his knuckles whitened.
A small inhale slipped through her nose Her fingers curled again in her sleeves, tugging the fabric down over her knuckles like she could anchor herself there as she placed them in her lap, back presssing against her chair. The ache behind her eyes shifted, slow and insistent now, pressing deeper than before. It wasn't sharp, but it was growing like something trying to push its way through from the other side of her thoughts.
She noticably winced when she mentioned what he had lost in the attack, grief welling for not only him but herself too at the bottom of her throat. She wanted to say she was sorry, to offer sympathy or empathy or whatever was necessary and ingrained in the depths of her, placed and taught carefully by someone she couldn't remember.
The question he asked next made something tighten in her chest, wrapping cold yet hungry fingers around the grief and squeezing. Her gaze dropped to the table again. Color flew to her cheeks as he head throbbed. While she had admitted something so vulnerable to his dragoon with her eyes, she wasn't sure she wanted to let out the next truth. She was from Stormbreak, after all, a city full of devout and loyal followers of the guides with deep, deep traditions.
The thought made her headache spike with a dull, spreading pressure that made her swallow harder.
“I…” Her voice caught, and she had to force out the rest of her sentence passed the frosted hand holding the welling grief within her, “uh, I don’t know what that would even look like.” Because Wren had never even prayed at a shrine.
Or, at least, she couldn't remember ever praying at one.
A small inhale slipped through her nose Her fingers curled again in her sleeves, tugging the fabric down over her knuckles like she could anchor herself there as she placed them in her lap, back presssing against her chair. The ache behind her eyes shifted, slow and insistent now, pressing deeper than before. It wasn't sharp, but it was growing like something trying to push its way through from the other side of her thoughts.
She noticably winced when she mentioned what he had lost in the attack, grief welling for not only him but herself too at the bottom of her throat. She wanted to say she was sorry, to offer sympathy or empathy or whatever was necessary and ingrained in the depths of her, placed and taught carefully by someone she couldn't remember.
The question he asked next made something tighten in her chest, wrapping cold yet hungry fingers around the grief and squeezing. Her gaze dropped to the table again. Color flew to her cheeks as he head throbbed. While she had admitted something so vulnerable to his dragoon with her eyes, she wasn't sure she wanted to let out the next truth. She was from Stormbreak, after all, a city full of devout and loyal followers of the guides with deep, deep traditions.
The thought made her headache spike with a dull, spreading pressure that made her swallow harder.
“I…” Her voice caught, and she had to force out the rest of her sentence passed the frosted hand holding the welling grief within her, “uh, I don’t know what that would even look like.” Because Wren had never even prayed at a shrine.
Or, at least, she couldn't remember ever praying at one.
Pulling them down, surround me
