och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen

då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,

Are you afraid?

The wiring of his body was still taut in places, lines of tension holding on to muscles for a quick escape, and the ice in his eyes was impenetrable. He kept his distance, hiding away behind those frozen walls and shielding his poor, hunted self. In some ways it was a shame that she was there with him, setting him on edge, because he couldn't quite appreciate the cold run of water over his sun-baked skin. He registered it, but only in the back of his mind—too wound up to relax into it and let it carry him away.

But then she spoke again, and his moon-silvered eyes settled on her with all the weight of the snow-capped mountains. Dear lamb?

.. lamb?

Lamb?

LAMB!?

It wasn't often that words affected Mauja—more often than not he paid more attention to what they meant rather than what they actually said.

It was the first time in a very, very long time that Mauja felt both genuinely insulted and kind of disgustingly patronized. Was she the wolf, hunting little lambs?

What on earth gave her the right to call him lamb, when he could kill her on the spot?

Maybe she could kill him on the spot, too.

Maybe she was some god-damned forest witch that would eat his heart if he upset her. And maybe her name, Tiva, was some kind of trigger word for a curse (would it make his ears fall off? hair fall out? he'd suffer a cardiac arrest and die on the spot?) and she was just trying to lure him into saying it by saying it was her name?

Like gods—you make me so uncomfortable and then you insult me and marginalize my reaction and then you think your name is going to make it better?

Names were worthless anyway, and he glared flatly at her with his ears flicked back as she got out of the water and moved away. Harmless play, bah. As harmless as earthquakes and avalanches and.. he grunted to himself, deciding that he was rapidly approaching the level of annoyed where it would overtake caution and whatever slight, fantasy-induced fear he held of her unknown qualities. Heck, he'd even spit out her name in defiance if he had to.

But despite the fact that he wanted to do little else but punch her straight in the face and tell her—uhh, tell her what again?—he remained in the brook, eyeing her with a veiled kind of curiosity. First she was all about trying to seduce him and then when he actually laid down in the brook with her she just got up and out of it? Had his glare at her words upset her? Insulted her? Hurt her delicate feelings?

He kinda hoped it had, but it was an unworthy thought, and she was coming back anyway, taking up her spot in the cold rushing water again, though.. maybe she was actually a tad further away?

Night-witch, Tiva. Man-hunter (maybe mare-hunter, too, he wasn't one to judge or assume). Slight like a slip of a girl. Enjoying the cool night and staring at it, and he stared too, at the crystal clear water and the distant sky with its twinkling stars, and.. and...

There was that thing about defiance and annoyance but buried beneath all those layers of mud and filth he'd found a kernel of gold: a genuine question.

"Tell me, Tiva," he began, and saying her name didn't incinerate him on the spot, so he went on, ears forward now and something softer gleaming in his blue eyes, "what about me made you approach me that way?"

Because it's kinda a recurring problem and I've never thought to ask anyone about it before.

[ @[Tiva] ]