Weaver
So precious is this life, this gift,
this temporary blindness.
this temporary blindness.
”Wonderful?” she says with some amount of mock shock on her face. ”That is not a word I hear directed at my person very often.” Though she sobers a bit as he disagrees with her, and she gives him a curious look. ”Then what do you think it is?” she asks, waiting for his opinion. After all, he’d been there, and she was doing little more than speculating.
The kiss is not enough, not really. It is a sip of water for someone dying of thirst. It is half a breath when she needs to fill her lungs with air. And yet, it is enough for the moment. It is a start. It is a beginning without pushing, without rushing, without throwing herself headfirst into a pit of vipers and dragging him down with her. Maybe it’s the right way to approach things; as a possibility, as an invitation; as a promise.
She listens to him talk, grinning cheekily as he makes a suggestion after protesting that he would be no help. ”Didn’t you recently tell me that making medicine and making booze is nearly the same thing? Besides, you are already making good suggestions.” She stores the idea away for later. She’d added only a hint of sweetness, always preferring less sugar in her booze (unlike her desserts), but maybe the drink needed a little bit more. He might be right, that the mint would balance out nicely with the sugar. "Oh, and your lips will definitely be needed," she says, tone playful but suggestive.
”Fine,” she says, pretending to be offended. ”Because wasting good booze is a capital offense punishable by tickling.” Now that she knows…Weaver just waggles the fingers of her free hand in his direction while taking a sip of the warm cider.
She gives him a shrug. ”You can ask, but I don’t really have an answer. Though I mean, you are slowly but surely winning my brother over. If you can win him to your cause, you can win the town.” Korbin was a town favorite, even more than Weaver. While Weaver was out hunting or drinking in the bar with the men, Korbin was in the market, sweet talking all the ladies, exchanging stories with the merchants, and playing songs with the musicians. Also he was a right and stubborn ass, and if Loren could break through that wall, he’d be just fine.
The kiss is not enough, not really. It is a sip of water for someone dying of thirst. It is half a breath when she needs to fill her lungs with air. And yet, it is enough for the moment. It is a start. It is a beginning without pushing, without rushing, without throwing herself headfirst into a pit of vipers and dragging him down with her. Maybe it’s the right way to approach things; as a possibility, as an invitation; as a promise.
She listens to him talk, grinning cheekily as he makes a suggestion after protesting that he would be no help. ”Didn’t you recently tell me that making medicine and making booze is nearly the same thing? Besides, you are already making good suggestions.” She stores the idea away for later. She’d added only a hint of sweetness, always preferring less sugar in her booze (unlike her desserts), but maybe the drink needed a little bit more. He might be right, that the mint would balance out nicely with the sugar. "Oh, and your lips will definitely be needed," she says, tone playful but suggestive.
”Fine,” she says, pretending to be offended. ”Because wasting good booze is a capital offense punishable by tickling.” Now that she knows…Weaver just waggles the fingers of her free hand in his direction while taking a sip of the warm cider.
She gives him a shrug. ”You can ask, but I don’t really have an answer. Though I mean, you are slowly but surely winning my brother over. If you can win him to your cause, you can win the town.” Korbin was a town favorite, even more than Weaver. While Weaver was out hunting or drinking in the bar with the men, Korbin was in the market, sweet talking all the ladies, exchanging stories with the merchants, and playing songs with the musicians. Also he was a right and stubborn ass, and if Loren could break through that wall, he’d be just fine.
Burn and drown and embrace the false dark,
then grasp the unthinkable height of resulting joy.
then grasp the unthinkable height of resulting joy.
