The Written Word

There was a decision to make. To be swallowed up by his fears once more, to retreat, and lick his millennia old wounds and continue on in his broody, reclusive way. Or, on the other hand, to trust. There was no true reason not to, this man owed him nothing and still chose to meet him where he was, fingers trailing along scars, and still wanting to walk forward with him. 

Faelyn had to trust.  

If you want to sit here and sew my buttons back on, then get your knife. his words started out just a little bit shaky, gaining confidence again as he spoke. Trusting that Ruth wouldn't turn that knife against his skin. Or, if he did, there wouldn't be any last damage at any rate. Sometimes just a little bit of danger could be fun in the right hands.