MAEA
A peculiar dichotomy it was. On one hand the sensation of his finges running through her hair, and the warm breath on her skin as he spoke in her ear. It was a reminder of how dangerous it was to linger too close, how easily he made her skin tingle with horrified delight. It would be easy to get lost in that touch.
But... on the other hand the words he spoke were of war, death and tragedy, of a woman he'd loved and lost, and lost again. Of hatred towards a father he hadn't managed to kill, of a country he'd failed to change, of pain and rage and despair... and this time Maea couldn't push away. Because it'd be like rejecting the things he spoke of, declining the trust he was pouring over her, and she just couldn't bring herself to do that. It was far too precious a gift.
Focusing on the tattoos instead, on the tale he told and on the secrets he chose to keep - for now, at least - she pretended that the rasping voice so close to her ear meant nothing at all. Touching the ink - unnecessary, perhaps, but he didn't seem to mind - she felt the slight difference in elevation where blue met bronze and thought again of the bar, of Lusea... and Phoebe. A good reminder of her own place in this little story.
"And then you wound up here? At least you're far away from him now, from all of it. He'll never be able to reach you here, I hope you know that. Whatever happened in the past, it's over. You can never be made to go back there." But even as she said that, Maea hoped in her heart that the man indeed was dead. Because just as the Voice had pulled so many other Outlanders here, it might very well reach for the man who'd destroyed so much of Sunjata's life.
But... on the other hand the words he spoke were of war, death and tragedy, of a woman he'd loved and lost, and lost again. Of hatred towards a father he hadn't managed to kill, of a country he'd failed to change, of pain and rage and despair... and this time Maea couldn't push away. Because it'd be like rejecting the things he spoke of, declining the trust he was pouring over her, and she just couldn't bring herself to do that. It was far too precious a gift.
Focusing on the tattoos instead, on the tale he told and on the secrets he chose to keep - for now, at least - she pretended that the rasping voice so close to her ear meant nothing at all. Touching the ink - unnecessary, perhaps, but he didn't seem to mind - she felt the slight difference in elevation where blue met bronze and thought again of the bar, of Lusea... and Phoebe. A good reminder of her own place in this little story.
"And then you wound up here? At least you're far away from him now, from all of it. He'll never be able to reach you here, I hope you know that. Whatever happened in the past, it's over. You can never be made to go back there." But even as she said that, Maea hoped in her heart that the man indeed was dead. Because just as the Voice had pulled so many other Outlanders here, it might very well reach for the man who'd destroyed so much of Sunjata's life.
