[ It's different than the whipcrack of Loki's temper; the strict, keen-edged Alexandrie. that can so often slice through the brushfire of her anger and drain it. When it doesn't, when she pushes past it, they fight with elemental passion: equal, matched, two dragons rending until they are spent and holding each other in silence, her face pressed tightly against his chest, his in her hair, both of them secure in the absolute knowledge that through all of it and here again is love. Love every bit as fierce and far more enduring than their anger. It is always left, shining, when everything else is burnt away.
She does not know what is left on the other side of this. She does not know what she has, or had, or will have. But his anger gives hers permission. Turns her from flight to round on him with an aspect that could almost make the air that touches her ignite. She opens her mouth and draws breath to scorch the earth to bedrock and—
—how often I have let fear turn me into an animal—
—stops.
It is, perhaps, like watching someone struggle against possession. A rider hauling back on the reins of a horse spooked to full bolt. Her eyes shut tightly. Her fists clench, her teeth, her shoulders; release, then clench again. She hunches, shuddering with the effort of grinding herself to a halt, and finally she sags, exhausted.
They are the same words, but instead of spat with acid vehemence they are only tired. ]
Why. So I may listen to you be impatient with my desperate fear like it is foolish childish nothing and then turn immediately to wrap the very thought of his in cotton and eager attentive warmth if he but hesitates half a breath too long?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2021-02-16 05:40 pm (UTC)She does not know what is left on the other side of this. She does not know what she has, or had, or will have. But his anger gives hers permission. Turns her from flight to round on him with an aspect that could almost make the air that touches her ignite. She opens her mouth and draws breath to scorch the earth to bedrock and—
—how often I have let fear turn me into an animal—
—stops.
It is, perhaps, like watching someone struggle against possession. A rider hauling back on the reins of a horse spooked to full bolt. Her eyes shut tightly. Her fists clench, her teeth, her shoulders; release, then clench again. She hunches, shuddering with the effort of grinding herself to a halt, and finally she sags, exhausted.
They are the same words, but instead of spat with acid vehemence they are only tired. ]
Why. So I may listen to you be impatient with my desperate fear like it is foolish childish nothing and then turn immediately to wrap the very thought of his in cotton and eager attentive warmth if he but hesitates half a breath too long?