[ It breaks her heart and makes it again, his voice. In a hundred years when any flesh that he had ever touched is gone, they will find those two words written on the bone nearest her heart.
In this, if in no other meeting since her return to Kirkwall, she is allowed her truth unvarnished. Ever since the silence they'd both carried in tense fists for more than a decade had broken over them, she had never been other than a storm. The halls of the Gallows had echoed with her passion: rage, sorrow, joy. Her fear. Her love. It would be stranger if she didn't draw a harsh breath full of promised tears and had her eyes fulfil that promise as she turned to him.
A year, a year, a year. Four seasons and one more. She had traced the path of his pen with her finger and imagined the grace of his hands. She had begged handkerchiefs scented with cologne and wine and smoke and taken them to bed to ease her fretful sleep. She had sat on the swing in the gardens and smiled, sometimes sat on the same swing and wept. And now she running, is stumbling on the hem of a skirt she's forgotten to lift, is crashing into his chest— real, solid, real— and finding the warmth there and choking out ]
no subject
In this, if in no other meeting since her return to Kirkwall, she is allowed her truth unvarnished. Ever since the silence they'd both carried in tense fists for more than a decade had broken over them, she had never been other than a storm. The halls of the Gallows had echoed with her passion: rage, sorrow, joy. Her fear. Her love. It would be stranger if she didn't draw a harsh breath full of promised tears and had her eyes fulfil that promise as she turned to him.
A year, a year, a year. Four seasons and one more. She had traced the path of his pen with her finger and imagined the grace of his hands. She had begged handkerchiefs scented with cologne and wine and smoke and taken them to bed to ease her fretful sleep. She had sat on the swing in the gardens and smiled, sometimes sat on the same swing and wept. And now she running, is stumbling on the hem of a skirt she's forgotten to lift, is crashing into his chest— real, solid, real— and finding the warmth there and choking out ]
Yes.