that's good. he's gotten so used to fighting her on everything that the easy capitulation is welcome.
he's not in any shape to press for more right now. sweat beads at his hairline, and the colour leeching from his complexion. it's like what life he has is flowing into her.
but her breathing is steady now. her heartbeat settling as the wound seals. she's going to survive this. )
[ she goes quiet and still in his arms. in his arms, as if he were embracing her, not holding her life in his hands. for a stuttering, fearful moment, she thinks that she'll have to confront this. that they'll sit here in the silence of the moment until it overextends itself and they have to speak to one another.
instead, she feels his breath slow where his ribcage is snug against hers. and when he collapses, it's a slow, lethargic thing, slumping over and pulling the foundation out from under her. she spills onto the ground with him, and for a moment, she can only stare at him, wide-eyed.
reaching up, she pushes matted hair out of her face. she is still weak, still ill, still exhausted, but she is conscious. and he is not.
when they'd been in opposite positions, he'd been prepared to drag her back to the empire. to his home.
that's where she takes him. it is a slow process, especially when she has to determine which limbs are safe to pull on after she had stabbed him in so many ways, when she has to strip off the bottom of her shirt to bandage the wound at his knee so that it stops spilling blood on the dirt.
she remembers the way to the basement he'd brought her to, the night of the harvest festival. she brings him there, lays him out on the same rotted cot. when he doesn't wake up after some time, she limps back over and lies down at his side, back pressed to his arm, to rest. ]
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logs2022-11-26 07:29 pm
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that's good. he's gotten so used to fighting her on everything that the easy capitulation is welcome.
he's not in any shape to press for more right now. sweat beads at his hairline, and the colour leeching from his complexion. it's like what life he has is flowing into her.
but her breathing is steady now. her heartbeat settling as the wound seals. she's going to survive this. )
no subject
instead, she feels his breath slow where his ribcage is snug against hers. and when he collapses, it's a slow, lethargic thing, slumping over and pulling the foundation out from under her. she spills onto the ground with him, and for a moment, she can only stare at him, wide-eyed.
reaching up, she pushes matted hair out of her face. she is still weak, still ill, still exhausted, but she is conscious. and he is not.
when they'd been in opposite positions, he'd been prepared to drag her back to the empire. to his home.
that's where she takes him. it is a slow process, especially when she has to determine which limbs are safe to pull on after she had stabbed him in so many ways, when she has to strip off the bottom of her shirt to bandage the wound at his knee so that it stops spilling blood on the dirt.
she remembers the way to the basement he'd brought her to, the night of the harvest festival. she brings him there, lays him out on the same rotted cot. when he doesn't wake up after some time, she limps back over and lies down at his side, back pressed to his arm, to rest. ]