#the same brush

If Nuala had clung to her brother despite the rift - in their family, in their world - if, in her soft heart and equal devotion, she could not bear to see the other half of her heart so maligned and driven out, supposedly free choice or not . . . what would she have wrought?

‟I am thankful he has retained this much grace, at least, despite the poison of his warmongering.” Nuala went very, very still; she barely felt the lance of her brother’s heart twisting, distress and guilt and righteous anger, but they were sharp indeed, somewhere very far away. They faded again as he regained his icy control. Nuala- Dearest sister, he is right that I made my choice; we are, Nuada hitched, a ripple through his tight mastery of himself, at peace with this, do not speak now in my defense only to put yourself- ‟If there is poison in my brother,” Nuala said calmly, the knowledge of the choice she was making settling, smooth but impossibly heavy, in her bones, ‟then, do you not think, I must be so poisoned myself?” Their father’s eyes widened and he sat forward, breath catching.