4/26/2025, 2:31 AM
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SKILL : - - - ( 1 / 5 )
The game they played was one of delicate balances - a shift in any one direction or sustained contact could spell disaster, the fallout of which would be astronomical. All the same, Fable indulged it for a glimmering, ephemeral moment. Her mind was far too tangled to surmise what existed at the center of it all; was her response to him, and his to her, a mechanism of something more all-encompassing?
She couldn't be sure, and although her lips curved at his reply and the heated intensity behind her gaze grew, she knew further encouragement to either of them could threaten the tenuous grip she held on her inhibitions. Fable's mind wandered, unbidden, to a proposed game of cat and mouse; a construct of flirtation and the denial of gratification all to make the final capture that much more alluring. The thought burned into every cell and pore and singular synapse, but she staunchly resisted it. Perhaps it had not been ideal that she received Fox at the borders, but the thought did not stop her tongue from delivering one final quip as she looked at him sidelong,
The absence of his fur against hers was met with internal resistance even as she created the distance herself, but she silenced it - she was certain her mind was merely clouded by hormones that could not be trusted. It did not occur to her in that moment, nor any of the moments that would come for months and months to follow, that she was starved for connection, for touch, for something authentic that didn't carry the barbs of unresolved trauma. Too long had she worn a shell to protect herself, that she forgot that not all words and actions would sting.
There was no room for her to study any of it, not with the pall of Gamma's disappearance hanging over her, nor Sycamore's injuries. She was so small in a sea of many greater things, and her own needs were not so often caught in the nets. As Fox permitted her them, she felt her haphazard structure begin to falter. The ugly mess of emotions she had suppressed and events she had weathered with manufactured stoicism for the sake of others flooded from the cracks, defiant against the restraints that once rendered them contained.
His gentle guidance to lean fully against him was answered as her frame slumped, losing what little integrity it had left. A strong breeze could have toppled her beneath the weight of her anguish, its currents rebounding. She wanted to reply, to say anything as he echoed the names of children who would never be, but it was as though she had forgotten all ability to speak. It took several long and agonizing moments before she could collect herself enough to will her tongue into motion.
Fox suggested a space dedicated to Rauiri and Croí - for a moment, the idea hurt. A memorial garden in honor of her children would be a reminder of their absence, but there would also be nothing more beautiful to simply remember them by. They deserved a place on this earth, even if it could not be in flesh and blood.
Carefully, and with gradual motions, she put space between their frames as she quietly considered his idea. Her weeping had finally abated, leaving swollen eyes and a sniffle in its wake, but she was steadier. The overwhelming emotions were all-consuming, but also seemed necessary - a storm to water flowers - and she felt a faint sense of levity that hadn't been there before. It was not often she was given the space to fall apart.
It was unfortunate that she lost access to controlled fire in this life - the fires they were given were unruly and dangerous. She did not think it was prudent to try and tame it, given all it threatened to take.
She bumped his shoulder with hers briefly before pulling herself onto her paws.
She couldn't be sure, and although her lips curved at his reply and the heated intensity behind her gaze grew, she knew further encouragement to either of them could threaten the tenuous grip she held on her inhibitions. Fable's mind wandered, unbidden, to a proposed game of cat and mouse; a construct of flirtation and the denial of gratification all to make the final capture that much more alluring. The thought burned into every cell and pore and singular synapse, but she staunchly resisted it. Perhaps it had not been ideal that she received Fox at the borders, but the thought did not stop her tongue from delivering one final quip as she looked at him sidelong,
As if I would let ye get so far.
The absence of his fur against hers was met with internal resistance even as she created the distance herself, but she silenced it - she was certain her mind was merely clouded by hormones that could not be trusted. It did not occur to her in that moment, nor any of the moments that would come for months and months to follow, that she was starved for connection, for touch, for something authentic that didn't carry the barbs of unresolved trauma. Too long had she worn a shell to protect herself, that she forgot that not all words and actions would sting.
There was no room for her to study any of it, not with the pall of Gamma's disappearance hanging over her, nor Sycamore's injuries. She was so small in a sea of many greater things, and her own needs were not so often caught in the nets. As Fox permitted her them, she felt her haphazard structure begin to falter. The ugly mess of emotions she had suppressed and events she had weathered with manufactured stoicism for the sake of others flooded from the cracks, defiant against the restraints that once rendered them contained.
His gentle guidance to lean fully against him was answered as her frame slumped, losing what little integrity it had left. A strong breeze could have toppled her beneath the weight of her anguish, its currents rebounding. She wanted to reply, to say anything as he echoed the names of children who would never be, but it was as though she had forgotten all ability to speak. It took several long and agonizing moments before she could collect herself enough to will her tongue into motion.
Fox suggested a space dedicated to Rauiri and Croí - for a moment, the idea hurt. A memorial garden in honor of her children would be a reminder of their absence, but there would also be nothing more beautiful to simply remember them by. They deserved a place on this earth, even if it could not be in flesh and blood.
Carefully, and with gradual motions, she put space between their frames as she quietly considered his idea. Her weeping had finally abated, leaving swollen eyes and a sniffle in its wake, but she was steadier. The overwhelming emotions were all-consuming, but also seemed necessary - a storm to water flowers - and she felt a faint sense of levity that hadn't been there before. It was not often she was given the space to fall apart.
I would love t'make a garden for them - it is a sweet idea,Fable said quietly, drawing in a shaky breath to ground herself. It would bear flowers and butterflies, the small messengers of the fae's realm. His mention of raspberry leaves was a kind notion, and the remnants of a smile plucked at the edges of her lips. Perhaps, if she was to fall pregnant again, she would have need of such a remedy.
M'mathair favored raspberry leaf tea. A pinch o' mint, too.
It was unfortunate that she lost access to controlled fire in this life - the fires they were given were unruly and dangerous. She did not think it was prudent to try and tame it, given all it threatened to take.
Thank ye,Fable added as her gaze lifted to meet Fox's once more.
Ye are as true a friend as anyone could want. I'm glad ye are back.
She bumped his shoulder with hers briefly before pulling herself onto her paws.
I should get back to Sycamore, but I would not say no t'a extra set o' paws,Fable added, a more meaningful curve finding her lips.
We can finish catching up on th' way.
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