Her breath hitches. It's an order that makes no sense, she doesn't know him, she doesn't know anyone but the other soldiers, it's unnecessary. No, she does, she feels the pull of that recognition but it's ethereal as smoke and she doesn't know him. She doesn't know anyone, she doesn't need to.
But his eyes. She knows his eyes even though she shouldn't.
So she must look at him, because she will obey. Obedience first and always. She looks back toward him, searching out his eyes (she knows those eyes, she could drown in them, it's all stories and pain and laughter, but who laughs?) And then the things that make his face, brow line and jaw, the straight nose, and she knows these things knows them, it's like an evaporating dream.
Her lips move in a silent 'Sir?' Her head feels strange, like everything is sliding away and she can't grasp it. Her fingers twitch against his, and then she suddenly grips with desperate strength.
He has a name. She knows the name, like she knows that little point of contact at her fingers.
This is important, I wrote it a thousand times in my own palm. Whispered it. Prayed it.
She tears the name from the inside of her own head and speaks it raggedly, "North?" Yes. Yes that's it. She sucks in a breath, and she's shaking, can't breathe, can taste her heart in her throat only it tastes like cinnamon. "North, something's wrong."
Day 152 | Morning | Action
But his eyes. She knows his eyes even though she shouldn't.
So she must look at him, because she will obey. Obedience first and always. She looks back toward him, searching out his eyes (she knows those eyes, she could drown in them, it's all stories and pain and laughter, but who laughs?) And then the things that make his face, brow line and jaw, the straight nose, and she knows these things knows them, it's like an evaporating dream.
Her lips move in a silent 'Sir?' Her head feels strange, like everything is sliding away and she can't grasp it. Her fingers twitch against his, and then she suddenly grips with desperate strength.
He has a name. She knows the name, like she knows that little point of contact at her fingers.
This is important, I wrote it a thousand times in my own palm. Whispered it. Prayed it.
She tears the name from the inside of her own head and speaks it raggedly, "North?" Yes. Yes that's it. She sucks in a breath, and she's shaking, can't breathe, can taste her heart in her throat only it tastes like cinnamon. "North, something's wrong."