[To cry in front of another person . . . it would take a lot, for him. He doesn't remember the last time he allowed himself to do it. It's been years, certainly. Maybe a decade. Tears are secret weaknesses. That's what they've always had to be.]
[Still. Though they haven't made the Bond yet, it feels in this one way as though they have. He can feel her sorrow and despair heavy in his chest, clutching tight at his heart. His eyes sting wet against the night air, so that he wants to bow his head against the world and hide his expression until he can clear his vulnerability from view.]
[What he's proposing means he won't be able to do that. Zelda will always have access to what he's feeling. The prospect is terrifying. But it's also the only right option that he sees. The only way to keep both of them safe and under control without exposing them to some stranger's naivete or ill will.]
[So, frightened as he is, his fingers still slide from her arm down to her hand, tentative and cautious as he loosely laces their fingers together. While she grieves, and he supports her. Not because she needs it, but because she's asked for it, words or no words. His palm is cold, his fingers colder — but he's there, until or unless she pushes him away.]
[When she speaks, he realizes that she's asking for something else: that he lead the way, at least to start. Which should feel natural but doesn't, not when it comes to something like this.]
We'll . . . need to go to the Coven, won't we? For the ceremony.
no subject
[Still. Though they haven't made the Bond yet, it feels in this one way as though they have. He can feel her sorrow and despair heavy in his chest, clutching tight at his heart. His eyes sting wet against the night air, so that he wants to bow his head against the world and hide his expression until he can clear his vulnerability from view.]
[What he's proposing means he won't be able to do that. Zelda will always have access to what he's feeling. The prospect is terrifying. But it's also the only right option that he sees. The only way to keep both of them safe and under control without exposing them to some stranger's naivete or ill will.]
[So, frightened as he is, his fingers still slide from her arm down to her hand, tentative and cautious as he loosely laces their fingers together. While she grieves, and he supports her. Not because she needs it, but because she's asked for it, words or no words. His palm is cold, his fingers colder — but he's there, until or unless she pushes him away.]
[When she speaks, he realizes that she's asking for something else: that he lead the way, at least to start. Which should feel natural but doesn't, not when it comes to something like this.]
We'll . . . need to go to the Coven, won't we? For the ceremony.