One moment, she is all forward movement, ready to yank the door open and ignore whatever he might say.
But then he does, and she stops, utterly. The wary way she's always twitching, the hissing words, all of it. Rather what she says, hangs, full as summer air with its weight. The words hang and she doesn't move. Silent, silent, silent, empty, empty, empty.
The other side of the braced doors, the Walkers groan, they ache and claw and splatter and moan in their undeath, seeing her movement, seeing without seeing and in turn she watches them, their teeth scratching at the glass, their rotted flesh smearing lines. Just one more monster, just one more nightmare. Not afraid, not even horrified when she looks at them. What are they but lycans of another time? Once more Jhansi is in flames, once more the halfbreeds pour over the fields and devour everything in their path, the impoverished feasted upon and feasting as they turned.
Her farmhouse, and how he'd torn her from it, the cyclical home that is lost as she ties herself to it. Patterns that repeat themselves, no, no it's not him. Here is not here. He is Sir Bors de Ganis. Here is the walls of her fortress, Sir Bors is at her feet, there is blood tacky and thick in her hair and her fingers grip her blade so tightly, she doesn't know how she'll ever let it go. This morning is a night a hundred years ago where she's told she has a purpose that isn't just martyrdom. Where there are things at stake that are cannot be done by mortal means alone as the vial Sir Bors presses into her hands, is warm from the skin of a dying man who tells her what must be done. She'd accepted it then, terrified, but she had.
The words are quiet, missable even, as they come. "Fine - fine, you have your wish."
She's still not looking at him and - fine.
The only movement is steadying, setting herself both feet to the ground, her shoulders in a military straight line, pride stinging enough to make the words come out, where she isn't sure how to make them move otherwise. "But my condition is that you go, now. Leave me. I'll clear this out myself, bring the others the day after tomorrow. I'll work faster without another anyway. I just... need time to think."
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But then he does, and she stops, utterly. The wary way she's always twitching, the hissing words, all of it. Rather what she says, hangs, full as summer air with its weight. The words hang and she doesn't move. Silent, silent, silent, empty, empty, empty.
The other side of the braced doors, the Walkers groan, they ache and claw and splatter and moan in their undeath, seeing her movement, seeing without seeing and in turn she watches them, their teeth scratching at the glass, their rotted flesh smearing lines. Just one more monster, just one more nightmare. Not afraid, not even horrified when she looks at them. What are they but lycans of another time? Once more Jhansi is in flames, once more the halfbreeds pour over the fields and devour everything in their path, the impoverished feasted upon and feasting as they turned.
Her farmhouse, and how he'd torn her from it, the cyclical home that is lost as she ties herself to it. Patterns that repeat themselves, no, no it's not him. Here is not here. He is Sir Bors de Ganis. Here is the walls of her fortress, Sir Bors is at her feet, there is blood tacky and thick in her hair and her fingers grip her blade so tightly, she doesn't know how she'll ever let it go. This morning is a night a hundred years ago where she's told she has a purpose that isn't just martyrdom. Where there are things at stake that are cannot be done by mortal means alone as the vial Sir Bors presses into her hands, is warm from the skin of a dying man who tells her what must be done. She'd accepted it then, terrified, but she had.
The words are quiet, missable even, as they come. "Fine - fine, you have your wish."
She's still not looking at him and - fine.
The only movement is steadying, setting herself both feet to the ground, her shoulders in a military straight line, pride stinging enough to make the words come out, where she isn't sure how to make them move otherwise. "But my condition is that you go, now. Leave me. I'll clear this out myself, bring the others the day after tomorrow. I'll work faster without another anyway. I just... need time to think."