moved !

╳ ┆ @warstrong liked for a starter.

                      She is made up of a summer evening’s colours, all navy to the brim of her waist  ;  the slip of waxing moonlight skin at her hip before the black of denim.  Only careful eyes could pick out the pinprick stars  –  seedy dust motes clinging to that occasional crease in the jeans, as life’s wearied fingertips are prone to leaving behind.  Yet, it is Astrid’s garb that leaves the daring dash of orange dusk across Lana’s sheltering arm, a sweltering glow that waits propped with anticipation as the lean blonde knocks once  ;  thrice  –  on the door of a home that feels more like, really, home than ever she could recreate.  Enough to breed an uncomfortable jealousy between her teeth, but not enough to sour her expression when the threshold parts itself to welcoming.  Her lips curve.

                      “Hello, dove.  You left this behind the other day.”  Criminally easy to be warm here.  If Lana brings knives into every room that she goes, it is Astrid who so famously lights up the corners of every four walls.

                 it was a gift from her mom    —    a loved thing  ,     SOFT   from use    /    worn  .     astrid has patched up holes in the seams  ,     perfectly enough that it still looks GOOD  ,     nearly new  ,     save for the touch of it  .     too - soft  ,     as though it may be expensive  ,     but isn’t  .     she smiles    /    happy to SEE it tucked into the dip of thin arm  .

                                                             HE HAS a picture in his mind to remember certain tender moments in the aftermath of violence    –    Rinna in their safehouse, Taliesen the next room over.  She laughs and prods his bruises:    BE CAREFUL, ZEVRAN.  He would lift his chin and smile and ask, how bad is it?  How bad?  His fingers twitch at his sides, but not enough to pull away from the nonchalance in his gaze, his posture    –    slowly bleeding control back over the mien of worry.  Whatever he projects outward, she knows by now, is never a certainty.  Perhaps it would be more comfortable for the both of them, however, if he swallows and plays the jovial man.  He has rooted back into place    –    she does not follow, you see    –    and from this distance he studies her.  It isn’t a man at the museum  ;  it’s too clinical.  It’s not the cold gloved hands of a doctor either.  Someone who is wearied by the sight of black-and-blue, maybe.  Someone who is more familiar to that over pastels.

                                                             “Truthfully?  Quite bad.”    And he lifts a hand  ;  crooks his finger.  There is patience yet impatience    –    the touch of the weather-beaten caretaker.    “It will bruise, and it will sting.  I’m familiar with these things.  You may simply wash your face, of course, but I know of ways to ease the pain.  Then you will also have a good night’s sleep, unburdened by such.”

                                                             She is not Rinna, nor Taliesen.  He presents a choice, politely, and he will not pressure her no matter the unease he feels.  It is not his place if she does not trust him so.  It is no-one’s obligation to earn this.  The hand remains raised, but now turns into an open palm    –    physical and symbolic representation of the easy binary that he offers.  Her doubt as to his reasoning for being here is overlooked  ;  overcast by his stoic handling of the matter.

                  ❛     thanks for the honesty  .     ❜       it’s a WRY thing  ,     comes with half a smile that tugs PAINFULLY enough at her lip that it bleeds  ,     just a little bit more  .     with a swipe of her tongue  ,     it’s gone    —    but not for long  .     astrid KNOWS it’s not good    —    she won’t DIE from it  ,     but it isn’t pleasant  ,     either  .     the thought of letting him help her is quite a foreign one    —    astrid thrives in her ABILITY  ,     in her skill  .     she fights and wins and bandages  ,     she teaches  ,     she helps  .     it isn’t supposed to be the other way around  .     fingers come up to rest along the swell of her mouth  .     it comes away bloody  ,     copper tones slipping to form bloody fingerprint  ,     a miniature crime scene  .

she thinks of scraped knees  ,     running around bases as a child  ,     her father’s hearty laugh  .     she thinks of training  ,     training  ,     training  .     training in the rain  ,     muddy and slick  ,     slipping beneath barbed wires  .     she thinks of patching her own wounds  ,     too ashamed to ask her dad  .     isn’t that how it was supposed to be     ?     wasn’t that what it was always GOING to be     ?

no thanks sits easily on her tongue  .     a welcomed thing  .     she knows he’d LISTEN  ,     leave  ,     maybe even grow bored  .     it was a SAFE thing  ,     curling up in bed with throbbing lip  ,     swollen cheek  .     sucking down some pain killers in the morning with orange juice  .     nursing her own wounds was no hardship  ,     no bother  .     astrid hofferson was covered in bruises more often than not  .

WAR - TORN.   pyrrhic  &  pyrrhous  amid  ruination,   this  marmoreal   monument  that  limns a  portrait    of  sphygmic    steel  (    and it  can be  crocked,  bruised  &  battered out of   shape   ).   SUBVERTED BY  A  BLOODIED  TRYST ;   terror hangs  heavy above  the head,  bedevilled  &  affinal   unto a  quiet  mercy.   o’  hollowed  man,  do you   still pulse with  life?  borne heart,  beating and  bleating  and such is the  cruel reminder of  mortality !

“  that’s the  BEST    way  that I  can describe it …   can’t you hear,  or have my  ears popped inwards again?  ”    gaslit veins  torn,  sparked by  gesture  near - recognised as   authentic.  taste of  ichorous copper  lingers,  filtered before  him and  still   ———   what was a  dilapidated  armour  without  chain  mill?  “  thought I  could maybe  lift some  weights  in the  mean - time … … …   the closest  hospital’s  too far for  me  ‘ta trek  to.  I’d  have better luck  goin’  an  eleven on  the  treadmill.  an’  I  SERIOUSLY  don’t think  I could last long…  ”

                  ❛     well  ,     you don’t sound like you’re dying  .     ❜       he   tosses banter like wilted roses  ,     petals scattered over the toes of her sneakers  .     an offering  ,     a defense  .     astrid doesn’t PAY his lyrics much attention    —    focuses INSTEAD on the almost wheeze of breath  ,     injury present in his TINNY tone  ,     metallic  ,     sharp  .     she can’t tell HOW BAD it actually is  ,     but there is no saccharinity to his situation  ,     no matter how light he tries to sound  .     astrid is IMMENSELY grateful he jokes  .     it’s better than UNCONSCIOUSNESS  .

     IF  THIS  WAS  ANYONE’S  FAULT,   IT  WAS  SNOTLOUT’S.    he’d  been  the  one  to  bring  up  the  discussion  of  COURTING,   &   with  the  amount  of  vikings  he’d  obviously  courted  before,   he’d  be  the  one  to  know.  or,   at  least  be  the  one  to  not  stop  talking  about  each   &   every  one   -   so  here  you  were,   dragonless,   NO  BACKUP,   nearly  tripping  over  your  own  foot  to  catch  up.

              ❛    hey !    astrid    -     ❜     honey-tongued,   you  are  PLIANT,   here.   for  her.   every  wheel   &   cog  in  your  mind  turns  submerged,   quick  like  a  muscle  memory.   like  something  electric  that  sparks  in   your  chest,   warm  /  fuzzy.   comfortable  /  easy.   soft.       ❛    i   -   uh.   left  something  !   down  by  the  cove,  and  you  should  !   come  with  me.    to   -   talk.    about  things.   ❜

@warstrong  is  a  dweeb   !!

                   you have never been a fool  .     see  ,     intuition has  called home in your bones  ,     a birthed skill  .     it nestles  ,     whispers  .     you have learned to LISTEN  .     it isn’t paranoia  ,     it’s survival  . you have never been a fool  ,     but trusting hiccup comes so easy  ,     now  .     you think back to a time where your guarded heart hissed at the thought of trusting anyone  ,     let alone him  .     now  ,     you can’t image it differently  .     this feeling has become HOME  .