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Själ's smile peaked and then it shattered. Too humiliated to look her friend in the eye, Nymeria lowered her head; she loathed herself all the more for causing that brightness to dissipate. I shouldn't have sought her out.
And yet it didn't matter: Själ reached out to her, brushing her muzzle against Nym's, her voice a whisper. Nym, she said gently: the equine's spirits lift momentarily and then fall. Nym. This was the first time anyone other than Volterra had called her that—and she, she appreciated it. There was, indeed, something intimate to it, something precious; even in her misery Nym reminded herself she would need to remember this moment.
The unicorn shifts, running her delicate muzzle along her neck.
The touch is agonizingly sweet. It is love she was never afforded by her mother, love she was never given by—by anyone.
She didn't realize how good it felt to be cared for, without all the messy complications of family. Her breath comes ragged now as she brings her head up, meeting Själ's amber gaze (so reminiscent of Confutatis', and yet so different.) Memories threaten to overwhelm her—memories of the beach and the sea and grey eyes watching and dragons on the horizon, glistening white and gold.
(I'm going to be sick.)
What can she tell Själ? How can she explain—how can she...
It was my own fault I deserved it I was too weak if I couldn't fight him off then he deserved this is allmyfaultallmyfault—"he... he did things to me. Själ—I can't, I don't want to remember him."
@Själ
Yes I lied, don't think about you all the time
All my switchblade words ain't aim to cut your sweet delusions
