[ Only that she's ashamed, still, and healing. What sort of heir apparent, what sort of Exalt-to-be fails so completely, buckling to Grimleal, letting Robin's treachery take everything from her - and then flees backward through time, protecting only her own skin? She's convinced he would think poorly of her if he knew.
She begins to explain it, in small parts, lifting her head again. The sentence remains unfinished. He cuts her off, stepping into her personal space, folding himself around her.
It's - cold - damp on damp. She isn't thinking about that as her heart betrays her yet again, acting in a way she certainly hasn't allowed: a rushed, panicked jerking, once more held too high toward her throat. Those little moments threaten the foundation of their friendship and she could quite do without them, thank you very much! Even though there is no actual quantifiable warmth, something suffuses deep into her bones, a lassitude, the faint stirrinngs of home. It's nice. (It's positively mortifying, because she's understanding in new ways just how much bigger he is than her, how fleshed out.
...And it's nice. Both those two things.)
When was the last time someone other than her parents held her, on that first day? She can't remember such an event. Maybe it happened. Likely, it didn't. No one ever thought she needed it, perhaps. She was good at effecting to that degree.
Evening out her breathing, away from the strangled hiccup of a sob that looms, like a threat, she wraps her arms around him in turn. Clinging, even, hands finding his back like it's a lifeline. ]
... forgive me.
[ It's said several seconds later, even as she doesn't let go. ]
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[ Only that she's ashamed, still, and healing. What sort of heir apparent, what sort of Exalt-to-be fails so completely, buckling to Grimleal, letting Robin's treachery take everything from her - and then flees backward through time, protecting only her own skin? She's convinced he would think poorly of her if he knew.
She begins to explain it, in small parts, lifting her head again. The sentence remains unfinished. He cuts her off, stepping into her personal space, folding himself around her.
It's - cold - damp on damp. She isn't thinking about that as her heart betrays her yet again, acting in a way she certainly hasn't allowed: a rushed, panicked jerking, once more held too high toward her throat. Those little moments threaten the foundation of their friendship and she could quite do without them, thank you very much! Even though there is no actual quantifiable warmth, something suffuses deep into her bones, a lassitude, the faint stirrinngs of home. It's nice. (It's positively mortifying, because she's understanding in new ways just how much bigger he is than her, how fleshed out.
...And it's nice. Both those two things.)
When was the last time someone other than her parents held her, on that first day? She can't remember such an event. Maybe it happened. Likely, it didn't. No one ever thought she needed it, perhaps. She was good at effecting to that degree.
Evening out her breathing, away from the strangled hiccup of a sob that looms, like a threat, she wraps her arms around him in turn. Clinging, even, hands finding his back like it's a lifeline. ]
... forgive me.
[ It's said several seconds later, even as she doesn't let go. ]