The scent of him sits soft in her nostrils, boyish musk and salty tears. She can feel the softness of his coat upon her cheek, the coarse scratchy hairs of a still growing mane; she focuses on this, and the rush of his pulse, concentrates on what she can touch over what she can feel. There is nothing she can do, no cure for his pain except patience and time: her brother tells her this, through the flow of their bond, and she knows that the kitsune is wiser than she. Her brother once bore her through the sea of her grief. Now perhaps she could do the same for her friend.
She is glad when he does not pull away, silently thrilled at the pale, bright smile which crosses his lips. Gold-slashed face softens, black eyes aglow as the boy's broken voice forms sentences, stories, an explanation of a figure she can almost imagine. Guilt tickles a golden ear as she realizes she has never asked Sacre about his family, never questioned where he came from or who he loved- largely, she knew, because she did not want to hear the answer. Copper child had always tried to forget the fact that her friend was from the Basin, home of their enemies, land of the wicked- yet hadn't he forgiven her for the sins of her mother? Hadn't he met Lace, and not judged him for his home?
Another shard of guilt needles at her heart. She doesn't even remember the name of Sacre's twin. Silently, fiercely, she makes a promise to learn it.
So what other response could she possibly give to the boy whose blue eyes have always looked upon her with kindness and love, but to promise her loyalty to the ends of the earth? "Do you want to find out?" she questions gently, an unspoken offering behind the words. "We could go to your family... in the Basin." The last word is faltering, but no less sincere. From the sand Natraj looks upon her with pride, pausing briefly between administrations of affection upon his younger friend. Black eyes flicker to the cream-dusted fox before returning to settle on the bloodstained boy.
Does he know that she would follow him anywhere, that her passion is his in whatever form he asks for? Does he know how desperately she wishes to ease his pain, how she longs to bear his burdens, to fight his battles and be his knight? She cannot help but assume he does, for how could he not, when she feels it all so brightly?
@[Sacre]
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[O] When I feel the bullets graze against my skin
