but there's chaos brewing
underneath my skin
She nearly snorted at his first statement (because hadn’t she strived to encourage that a multitude of times before?). By the tone, the flattened affect, Melita half-presumed she was about to be shut out again, the walls and gates drawn up. She steeled herself, tried to put a damper on the fire already brewing inside her chest, on the jaw that wanted to clench tightly, on the growl that yearned to unfurl.
And then there was the notebook, opened, piles and scribes and notes. The warning caused a brief narrowing of her eyes – a head tilt, the expectations flickering and flaring in multitudes of directions. “Go on then.”
She caught the tail-end of the meaning though, and a mulish expression crossed over her features, eyes dashing towards her staff. The youth knew the stories of his father. How he’d arrived here, some other Outlander making, didn’t really matter. What he was doing, how or why or when or where, were in the details and the nuances, and the deepening sense of dread pooled around, on a sharper, precise inhale.
And then there was the notebook, opened, piles and scribes and notes. The warning caused a brief narrowing of her eyes – a head tilt, the expectations flickering and flaring in multitudes of directions. “Go on then.”
She caught the tail-end of the meaning though, and a mulish expression crossed over her features, eyes dashing towards her staff. The youth knew the stories of his father. How he’d arrived here, some other Outlander making, didn’t really matter. What he was doing, how or why or when or where, were in the details and the nuances, and the deepening sense of dread pooled around, on a sharper, precise inhale.
trying to hold in the storm
instead of making waves
MELITA
