He falls against her, taking her hand, leaning on her shoulder, sinking into it. The lantern is out of his hands. It's genuinely the first time in almost seven years that he as been truly, truly able to accept any kind of support without feeling bad about it; without his history and his guilt getting in the way like a filthy pelt. Like something growing out of him, something staining the other person by association with him, something he felt destined to live with forever.
(He doesn't know if he can bring himself to call it clarity. Can clarity be had without some burden? Without feeling repentant?)
"One moment," he pleads. For a while he doesn't speak at all. What he needs is just this, this perfect, light silence. Unhurried and unharried, undisturbed snow, the way in his dreams with the white horse he would lie down in the open field to catch his breath, with the snow's simple acceptance of him. He could sleep like this.
But that'd be impolite. So eventually, instead: "I do have two questions. First... I believe I heard that you'd prefer a friend over a worshiper. How shall I come to you and your sisters that way, when you can't appear on the island?"
no subject
(He doesn't know if he can bring himself to call it clarity. Can clarity be had without some burden? Without feeling repentant?)
"One moment," he pleads. For a while he doesn't speak at all. What he needs is just this, this perfect, light silence. Unhurried and unharried, undisturbed snow, the way in his dreams with the white horse he would lie down in the open field to catch his breath, with the snow's simple acceptance of him. He could sleep like this.
But that'd be impolite. So eventually, instead: "I do have two questions. First... I believe I heard that you'd prefer a friend over a worshiper. How shall I come to you and your sisters that way, when you can't appear on the island?"