She tries to greet him with a comforting smile, but her lips fall short of a completed curl, and her eyes glow dim with tender concern. Almost impatient she waits for his voice, for some answer, some indication of what is so wrong- for without a monster how can she fight for him? Without a shadow, what can she illuminate? Ardent mind yearns to rescue her friend from despair, and childlike naivete prevents her from knowing that some battles must be fought with patience, not swords. Her brother is far less stubborn than she, faster to realized that this sorrow runs deep. He leans into Inari when the red vulpine comes close, reaching out with vermilion tongue to groom the younger, one-tailed fox. The kit nearly surpasses Natraj in size, the girl notes absently, anxiety causing her to fidget and think. Another change, the fox's growth; another thing which stays the same.
She waits in silence for Sacre to speak, endless eyes gentle and gold-slashed brow furrowed. Quietly, internally, she worries and frets, anxious, uncertain, angry and afraid. Sorrow is no stranger, but it's always been hers, a private thing belonging only to her; she cannot remember being confronted by this, seeing sadness written so clearly on the face of another, something she could reach out and touch with her lips, something she could taste and smell in the air. She wishes she could reach out and wipe it away, dry sky-blue eyes and ease pulsing heart. She wishes she could do so many things.
And then, when he speaks, she wishes she could simply run away, and hates herself for being such a coward, for being such a disgusting excuse for a friend.
The brush of his shoulder against her own feels like a promise, drags her from her own anxiety and focuses her mind again upon him. She smiles again, a faint, hopeful thing, pressing her cheek briefly against his neck before pulling away, onyx eyes searching his brilliant blues. Tell me what's wrong. Tell me who to fight. Tell me anything, so I know what to do.
But of course, when the time comes, she does not know what to do.
She looks at his chest then back to his eyes, breathing a cloud of vibrant red sparks. They circle around him, looking for something to heal and fix; but of course there is nothing; it's not that kind of pain. Dual colored ears sit high on her head as she waits, waits for eons and seconds and moments and an eternity, until finally, finally, the truth tumbles out.
And she doesn't know what to do.
"Oh," she whispers, a soft exhalation of steam in the winter air, a useless syllable laced with sorrow she can't quite express. "Oh, Sacre, I can't... I'm so sorry." She stammers; she falters; she hates herself for not knowing what to say, hates him for presenting a problem she cannot possibly fix. She's never been close to a death before, never seen someone she loved laid out in the cold. She's lost, but always with the flickering hope that loss will prove temporary, that her family will come back.
She would trade all that hope for the ability to take all the sorrow off her friend's face.
After a moment the girl speaks again, deep voice careful, eyes searching his. "What was she like?" she wonders aloud, then winces internally, afraid that this might be the wrong thing to say. Copper child's never known the right thing to say, only how to question and hope for the best.
@[Sacre]
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[O] When I feel the bullets graze against my skin
