Then give yourself the grace to let it heal. No one expects a broken limb to be well in a moment. Why should the wounds of your soul be any less so?
[ She sighed, exhausted almost by it. Perhaps the hypocrisy of a kind, that she knows she carries her own crimes, her own pain, and she shall never heal it. But it would not take away the important lessons of her own community she was taught to give to her people, and all that came to them for shelter.
She may have failed, but that did not mean she would allow others to suffer.
Even if it would be easier to wash her hands of it all.
Her hands dropped, eyes lowering with it, to release him from that pinning demand. She inhaled, slowly, careful of his pride. His first weapon it seemed, a brittle edge he seemed most concerned for. Instead she took his hand. Delicate, warm, curling around the outside of his.
One did not have to wield a blade to be commanding, time had taught her. Just one touch could communicate everything that need be said.]
Come. We will sit first.
[ And with that touch, she leads him to seats up the back of the amphitheatre, away from the eyes of others, where the lights were dimmer and he could have privacy to what he felt was so unforgivable in himself.
She picks a bench for them and sweeps her skirts below her to sit. The stiff woolen apron over her legs smoothed out with a practical touch. Then she beckons him to join her. Her arms open for him to sit beside her. A simple encouragement for him to do as he had before and curl against her side. It's over reaching, certainly, expecting perhaps too much, but she rather felt they were beyond that, at present.
There she waits with the offer, whatever he picks, whatever he chooses, it is offered freely. Comfort in however he chose to take it. Offered without judgement and comment.]
no subject
[ She sighed, exhausted almost by it. Perhaps the hypocrisy of a kind, that she knows she carries her own crimes, her own pain, and she shall never heal it. But it would not take away the important lessons of her own community she was taught to give to her people, and all that came to them for shelter.
She may have failed, but that did not mean she would allow others to suffer.
Even if it would be easier to wash her hands of it all.
Her hands dropped, eyes lowering with it, to release him from that pinning demand. She inhaled, slowly, careful of his pride. His first weapon it seemed, a brittle edge he seemed most concerned for. Instead she took his hand. Delicate, warm, curling around the outside of his.
One did not have to wield a blade to be commanding, time had taught her. Just one touch could communicate everything that need be said.]
Come. We will sit first.
[ And with that touch, she leads him to seats up the back of the amphitheatre, away from the eyes of others, where the lights were dimmer and he could have privacy to what he felt was so unforgivable in himself.
She picks a bench for them and sweeps her skirts below her to sit. The stiff woolen apron over her legs smoothed out with a practical touch. Then she beckons him to join her. Her arms open for him to sit beside her. A simple encouragement for him to do as he had before and curl against her side. It's over reaching, certainly, expecting perhaps too much, but she rather felt they were beyond that, at present.
There she waits with the offer, whatever he picks, whatever he chooses, it is offered freely. Comfort in however he chose to take it. Offered without judgement and comment.]