[ He seems so resigned now; not tame - only beaten. Only accepting that this is happening.
What does it mean when one is so accustomed to building a defense, that a kiss, or a touch, or a soft word seems like an infiltration, and that the war has been lost? That lying down to sleep seems like surrender? That's how he looks: like a captured city after a long siege.
Tomorrow, she thinks, she'll speak with Wallace. Perhaps he'll be willing to give some insight into Treavor's behavior; if he has been with the man for so long that this nightly routine is so perfected, then he must know what has been endured. The question is whether the manservant will share that information with her. She knows it's the habit of servants to gossip amongst one another, but there is a strict line between that, and telling tales to the employers.
Some distant, ingrained memory, perhaps, of who can be trusted on a farm, and who can not.
His words catch her, hand hovering just as he hovers, and a frown tugs at the corner of her mouth as she tries to make sense of -
Ah. She told him she didn't care to kiss anyone. How cold she is. And her expression softens, full of clemency. (Doesn't she feel agreeable just now? Warm, yes, and agreeable.) ]
No, I won't freeze. I have such warmth for you. My friend.
[ Yes, friend. Let him rail against it if he wishes; how she likes the notion of having one friend, someone to hold dear. Someone who has no opinion of Brom, nor memory of Ichabod. Perhaps Treavor is some brightness in her life, after all; perhaps she needn't feel so wholly deadened to the world.
Tomorrow will tell, and every tomorrow after.
With these words, her fingertips trace again through his hair, a slow carding she repeats, rhythmic and pleasing to herself, if he doesn't shy away. ]
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What does it mean when one is so accustomed to building a defense, that a kiss, or a touch, or a soft word seems like an infiltration, and that the war has been lost? That lying down to sleep seems like surrender? That's how he looks: like a captured city after a long siege.
Tomorrow, she thinks, she'll speak with Wallace. Perhaps he'll be willing to give some insight into Treavor's behavior; if he has been with the man for so long that this nightly routine is so perfected, then he must know what has been endured. The question is whether the manservant will share that information with her. She knows it's the habit of servants to gossip amongst one another, but there is a strict line between that, and telling tales to the employers.
Some distant, ingrained memory, perhaps, of who can be trusted on a farm, and who can not.
His words catch her, hand hovering just as he hovers, and a frown tugs at the corner of her mouth as she tries to make sense of -
Ah. She told him she didn't care to kiss anyone. How cold she is. And her expression softens, full of clemency. (Doesn't she feel agreeable just now? Warm, yes, and agreeable.) ]
No, I won't freeze. I have such warmth for you. My friend.
[ Yes, friend. Let him rail against it if he wishes; how she likes the notion of having one friend, someone to hold dear. Someone who has no opinion of Brom, nor memory of Ichabod. Perhaps Treavor is some brightness in her life, after all; perhaps she needn't feel so wholly deadened to the world.
Tomorrow will tell, and every tomorrow after.
With these words, her fingertips trace again through his hair, a slow carding she repeats, rhythmic and pleasing to herself, if he doesn't shy away. ]