.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
the fine line between love and hate
His ears sweep forward, confusion clouding the burgeoning heat that had arose in his eyes. Ada spoke the Debwani tongue? His brows furrow slightly as his mind struggled to pick out words that would make sense in Dorobian, but failed. “Kwa nini kuficha maneno yako kutoka kwangu, duma?” His deep voice questioned, wariness fracturing into his dark eyes, cooling the passion in them. He could not easily forget or sweep aside their past, so fraught with lies and trust; promises and intrigue.
But, on the heels of the Debwani language was a soft laugh and a Dorobian endearment (if haughty). “Mchumba?” his echo of her affectionate term was slightly smug and wholly amused, “When have I been your sweetling, Ada?” His great skull cocked, though he could not help the ripple of his scarred hide as he both saw and felt her golden gaze travel over his ridged and marked skin.
But, as suddenly as his wary playfulness (so easily fallen into from their past) came, it left as her next set of words reverberated deep in his chest. “Not exactly, your wounds weren’t physical, but you were still wounded.” His navy eyes blinked once, gaze sweeping back to her face, closely watching and studying the woman. She was right—painfully so. But why was she saying this? He had left her bloodied, but he had also saved her life by sending her out of Dorobo.
So weren’t they even? The words she spoke…they tread dangerously close to a ground that could easily undo all of the foundation he had built against his demons while in Helovia. A swallow, a slight clench of teeth—he watched her closely, awaiting so see where her words would lead. Did she toy with him, use her wiles and to gain power over him? He knew the dark depths revenge could send someone.
“I never hated you for that.” But her next murmur disarmed him wholly, ”I figured that you hated yourself enough for it.” “I did,” his reply was soft, low, and simple at first. He paused, still watching his cat, muzzle reaching out to gently trace the scar on her flank— a scar still stark against her golden flesh despite the time that had passed since Mawindo had marked her. “I don’t know how, but if I could have done it differently, I would have,” his thick lips moved close to her spotted skin. He did not waste time on apologies—for there were many things to apologize for, but this was not one of them. It was wasted breath, for they both knew that the marks on her skin had been a necessary means to and end of the Makutano.
But, still, even knowing that, it did not relieve the guilt and shame that boiled in his barrel and eyes when he saw the scars on her hide.
Kwa nini kuficha maneno yako kutoka kwangu, duma? = Why do you hide your words from me, cheetah?
But, on the heels of the Debwani language was a soft laugh and a Dorobian endearment (if haughty). “Mchumba?” his echo of her affectionate term was slightly smug and wholly amused, “When have I been your sweetling, Ada?” His great skull cocked, though he could not help the ripple of his scarred hide as he both saw and felt her golden gaze travel over his ridged and marked skin.
But, as suddenly as his wary playfulness (so easily fallen into from their past) came, it left as her next set of words reverberated deep in his chest. “Not exactly, your wounds weren’t physical, but you were still wounded.” His navy eyes blinked once, gaze sweeping back to her face, closely watching and studying the woman. She was right—painfully so. But why was she saying this? He had left her bloodied, but he had also saved her life by sending her out of Dorobo.
So weren’t they even? The words she spoke…they tread dangerously close to a ground that could easily undo all of the foundation he had built against his demons while in Helovia. A swallow, a slight clench of teeth—he watched her closely, awaiting so see where her words would lead. Did she toy with him, use her wiles and to gain power over him? He knew the dark depths revenge could send someone.
“I never hated you for that.” But her next murmur disarmed him wholly, ”I figured that you hated yourself enough for it.” “I did,” his reply was soft, low, and simple at first. He paused, still watching his cat, muzzle reaching out to gently trace the scar on her flank— a scar still stark against her golden flesh despite the time that had passed since Mawindo had marked her. “I don’t know how, but if I could have done it differently, I would have,” his thick lips moved close to her spotted skin. He did not waste time on apologies—for there were many things to apologize for, but this was not one of them. It was wasted breath, for they both knew that the marks on her skin had been a necessary means to and end of the Makutano.
But, still, even knowing that, it did not relieve the guilt and shame that boiled in his barrel and eyes when he saw the scars on her hide.
Kwa nini kuficha maneno yako kutoka kwangu, duma? = Why do you hide your words from me, cheetah?
@Adaeze
Please tag Tembovu.
