Though for a long moment, Fitcher fails to produce the one at the top of it. Instead, she marks his face and the line of his brow. It has the delicate intent of a needle—sharp and clever, sticking and knitting. When her long hand moves, it's heedless of the dagger left in her lap or the potential distraction of flicking her shirt fully open. Rather she makes to touch Silas' cheek. Her fingernails scrape purposefully at the bristle there. Not gentle, but not entirely unsympathetic to the wear and the crease in his expression or to the tension in him.
It's not will he let her go, or what will he say to anyone who might ask; what he thinks of her, or what he wishes to know that she'll refuse to tell him. She isn't unhappy, no, but she isn't unfeeling. or unable to sense her own trajectory. Indeed, there's a small spark in the look of her that suggests Fitcher is fully aware of what cuts she's rendered and what more she will.
no subject
Though for a long moment, Fitcher fails to produce the one at the top of it. Instead, she marks his face and the line of his brow. It has the delicate intent of a needle—sharp and clever, sticking and knitting. When her long hand moves, it's heedless of the dagger left in her lap or the potential distraction of flicking her shirt fully open. Rather she makes to touch Silas' cheek. Her fingernails scrape purposefully at the bristle there. Not gentle, but not entirely unsympathetic to the wear and the crease in his expression or to the tension in him.
It's not will he let her go, or what will he say to anyone who might ask; what he thinks of her, or what he wishes to know that she'll refuse to tell him. She isn't unhappy, no, but she isn't unfeeling. or unable to sense her own trajectory. Indeed, there's a small spark in the look of her that suggests Fitcher is fully aware of what cuts she's rendered and what more she will.
Starting with:
"Whether or not you'd like to come with me."