Seeing her was like driving a stake through his heart, driving a mortal wound through his chest. He couldn't breathe much less function with conviction. It was a wonder he was still standing. The way she could look at him and see nothing was punishment on its own, but the sadness orbed around her was even worse.
What have I done?
He never under any delusion that the choice to let her drink the potion would end happily but this? He....he didn't want this. It felt filthy to him, wrong in so many ways. Even if it was his own selfish heart talking but he'd never been so sure of anything in his life. He had to fix this. He swallowed the lump in his throat, nerves alight with anxious anticipation. Looking at her now was akin to looking directly at the sun. The longer he tried to look, the weaker he became. Eventually he would be nothing but singed regret at her feet if he didn't stop now. Funny how self sabotage wreaked havoc on one's control. Funny how all of this could've been avoided if he'd seen a bigger picture when asking the Witch of the Wilds for her favor.
Ragnar tried not to look at her but he could feel her presence in his peripheral. She was close enough that some of her heat leached toward him, a painfully distinct scent flaring into his nostrils as she shifted. His eyes fluttered closed and his hands moved via habit as he continued to soothe the riled mare. He hid the flush of his cheeks just out of sight on the other side of the horse's head, taking the brief moment it took to adjust the tension of the reins to compose himself.
Hearing her say that she didn't know much about horses cut deep. Again, a fruit of his own misdeeds though it stung no less and perhaps even more so. They'd spent countless hours over countless days, weeks, months, years working up her courage to approach a mount without a lick of fear. Horses were far too intuitive to accept anything less. He was convinced part of the reason that Lizbet was riled was because of the unease hanging charged around them. He swallowed again.
Her brother. Right. Raphael. His son. The very son who wouldn't so much look him in the eye as he would even acknowledge his presence (which was remarkable considering how prominent Ragnar was around the keep). Another mountain to scale at another time.
It wasn't until he was back in front of the horse that he spied the toddler leaning out towards him from her mother's arm. And it was then he allowed himself a good look at the child.
His heart leapt in his throat as he numbly allowed her into his arms, seeing that her weight was too unbalanced to safely nuzzle back to her mother. He froze solid when she formed against his side, hitched awkwardly onto one hip. And as she reached excitedly for the calmed horse, Ragnar could feel his face pale further.
What have I done?
He never under any delusion that the choice to let her drink the potion would end happily but this? He....he didn't want this. It felt filthy to him, wrong in so many ways. Even if it was his own selfish heart talking but he'd never been so sure of anything in his life. He had to fix this. He swallowed the lump in his throat, nerves alight with anxious anticipation. Looking at her now was akin to looking directly at the sun. The longer he tried to look, the weaker he became. Eventually he would be nothing but singed regret at her feet if he didn't stop now. Funny how self sabotage wreaked havoc on one's control. Funny how all of this could've been avoided if he'd seen a bigger picture when asking the Witch of the Wilds for her favor.
Ragnar tried not to look at her but he could feel her presence in his peripheral. She was close enough that some of her heat leached toward him, a painfully distinct scent flaring into his nostrils as she shifted. His eyes fluttered closed and his hands moved via habit as he continued to soothe the riled mare. He hid the flush of his cheeks just out of sight on the other side of the horse's head, taking the brief moment it took to adjust the tension of the reins to compose himself.
Hearing her say that she didn't know much about horses cut deep. Again, a fruit of his own misdeeds though it stung no less and perhaps even more so. They'd spent countless hours over countless days, weeks, months, years working up her courage to approach a mount without a lick of fear. Horses were far too intuitive to accept anything less. He was convinced part of the reason that Lizbet was riled was because of the unease hanging charged around them. He swallowed again.
It's best to start them young on respect.He commented offhandedly as he busied around the familiar horse, now moving along her flank to smooth over her back with one of his hands.
Her brother. Right. Raphael. His son. The very son who wouldn't so much look him in the eye as he would even acknowledge his presence (which was remarkable considering how prominent Ragnar was around the keep). Another mountain to scale at another time.
It wasn't until he was back in front of the horse that he spied the toddler leaning out towards him from her mother's arm. And it was then he allowed himself a good look at the child.
His heart leapt in his throat as he numbly allowed her into his arms, seeing that her weight was too unbalanced to safely nuzzle back to her mother. He froze solid when she formed against his side, hitched awkwardly onto one hip. And as she reached excitedly for the calmed horse, Ragnar could feel his face pale further.
Aren't you wiggly...there....gentle...He swallowed again the choking lump forming quickly in his throat.
H-how old is this wee lass?Because at this point all he needed was an age to confirm what he already knew to be true.
04-28-2023, 11:26 PM
