[ and just as his patience wears thin over her evasion, so too does she find the cold grip of dread tighten its hold around her throat over his.
loyalty, he says, in a voice thick with sincerity, and she wants to laugh. instead she jerks away from his touch, taking a hasty step back on snow that nearly has her sliding down to her knees again, but she manages her balance much more successfully than she does her spiking emotions. loyalty, he says, and she is tempted again to ask him what he think that word means.
his words again as so sweet, so gentle. he stands before her emanating this irresistible warmth, made only more tempting by the chill that hangs heavy in the winter air, but she is wary of that temptation, worried to lose herself again to the comfort and complacency he so readily offers her, the very same she's indulged in too many times before.
it is easy now, though, to drown such words in the torrent of emotions she'd felt off of him, the emotions she still continues to sense from him, unchanging even as his frustrations grow, even as her own distress becomes evident. if his words were a flame and she, a lonely, desperate moth, then his emotions now become the daylight that reveals all to her, providing now a context that burns too much and scares her away. ]
That's not... [ and of course, he was always so much better with words, where she would often stumble over them as if they were her own feet, frozen and heavy from fright and failure. ] You don't love him like you would love kin... Or —
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loyalty, he says, in a voice thick with sincerity, and she wants to laugh. instead she jerks away from his touch, taking a hasty step back on snow that nearly has her sliding down to her knees again, but she manages her balance much more successfully than she does her spiking emotions. loyalty, he says, and she is tempted again to ask him what he think that word means.
his words again as so sweet, so gentle. he stands before her emanating this irresistible warmth, made only more tempting by the chill that hangs heavy in the winter air, but she is wary of that temptation, worried to lose herself again to the comfort and complacency he so readily offers her, the very same she's indulged in too many times before.
it is easy now, though, to drown such words in the torrent of emotions she'd felt off of him, the emotions she still continues to sense from him, unchanging even as his frustrations grow, even as her own distress becomes evident. if his words were a flame and she, a lonely, desperate moth, then his emotions now become the daylight that reveals all to her, providing now a context that burns too much and scares her away. ]
That's not... [ and of course, he was always so much better with words, where she would often stumble over them as if they were her own feet, frozen and heavy from fright and failure. ] You don't love him like you would love kin... Or —
Or me.