(no subject)
This is not, in actuality, plot-related. Just a little something that poked as me until I had to write it. Do enjoy.
Anne isn't sure, exactly, what it is that draws her to him so. He is prickly, and proud, and his moods oscillate wildly--he glares and laughs and freezes all in a minute and she loses her balance and grasps blindly at words while her own temper rises hot in her cheeks. Gray eyes snap into gold, and he laughs, and she laughs, and allows herself to be lost in pale smiles.
And then she stares into wild golden eyes, and feels not quite safe, and not quite sure, and terribly, wonderfully tempted, while her heart gives a queer little flutter. She catches her breath, and imagines white hair blown in a cold winter wind; dark sweater against green grass and gray rocks; golden eyes and golden harp and a strain of music that breaks her heart beautifully and she feels the sting of tears; hears the wild clear call of a hunting horn.
She presses her cheek to warm wool, wonders at fingers paler than her own and how the two entwine, pale and paler, delicate hands tracing calluses made by harpstrings and farm work. Her hair falls over his sweater, blazing like a fire
I am the blaze on every hill
and they are red and white, gray and gold. Her hair smells like lilies from the flowers she had pinned in it; his sweater smells like a cold fresh mountain wind and wool and every so slightly of the far off salt sea, and she knows that his mouth will taste like the tea they drank, warm and comforting like the breath they share when he bends his head to lightly brush his lips against hers.
He is fierce and gentle and hard and questioning all at once, this half-grown boy, and she can be dreamy and lost and angry, sometimes, and quiet, other times, with him, the solemn eyed girl-child of whom poor Matthew Cuthbert had been so ludicrously afraid. He is not safe, not the way Gilbert is safe--but sometimes even Gilbert is not safe anymore, when she looks up suddenly to see that strange yearning in clear hazel eyes and knows she can't give him what it is he'd ask of her--if he asked what she is afraid he might. Bran is not safe in the way that a fire is never quite safe, how it can go from cool candlelight to catch, blazing upon a hillside.
Fire on the mountainside will find the harp of gold
Gil is not like that. He is always there, a steady place for Anne to fall back upon
(I think you are just searching for a steady place to stand)
when it seems as though she is about to spin right off of the earth and out into the brilliant apocalypse that she sees beyond the wide windows, there to rescue her when she finds herself clinging to a bridge post, there to hold her together when she is feeling herself starting to shatter, fragile as any piece of glass.
Bran fascinates her, and she wonders at the gentleness in his fingers when he touches her cheek, at the warmth of his hand on hers, warmth that glows through her and she has to smile at him with shining starry eyes.
Gilbert makes her feel safe, and comfortable, and needed--the way Matthew, who was the first man to ever love her, made her feel. Except--except Gilbert is different, isn't he? Somehow, there is something she cannot quite see that makes, oh, all the difference in the world.
Because of Bran, she has stopped trying to open the door. Because of Bran, and the hurt that darkens the world for her everytime it remains closed.
Because of Gilbert, she knows that she has to try to open the door again. Because of Gilbert, and the confusion and the pain and the longing in his eyes, in the way he does not reach for her.
For now, though, she can rest her head against soft Welsh wool, and hear Bran's lilting voice speak to her, and close her eyes to the world, even if she isn't sure, exactly, why she wants to.
And perhaps that is alright, for now.
Anne isn't sure, exactly, what it is that draws her to him so. He is prickly, and proud, and his moods oscillate wildly--he glares and laughs and freezes all in a minute and she loses her balance and grasps blindly at words while her own temper rises hot in her cheeks. Gray eyes snap into gold, and he laughs, and she laughs, and allows herself to be lost in pale smiles.
And then she stares into wild golden eyes, and feels not quite safe, and not quite sure, and terribly, wonderfully tempted, while her heart gives a queer little flutter. She catches her breath, and imagines white hair blown in a cold winter wind; dark sweater against green grass and gray rocks; golden eyes and golden harp and a strain of music that breaks her heart beautifully and she feels the sting of tears; hears the wild clear call of a hunting horn.
She presses her cheek to warm wool, wonders at fingers paler than her own and how the two entwine, pale and paler, delicate hands tracing calluses made by harpstrings and farm work. Her hair falls over his sweater, blazing like a fire
I am the blaze on every hill
and they are red and white, gray and gold. Her hair smells like lilies from the flowers she had pinned in it; his sweater smells like a cold fresh mountain wind and wool and every so slightly of the far off salt sea, and she knows that his mouth will taste like the tea they drank, warm and comforting like the breath they share when he bends his head to lightly brush his lips against hers.
He is fierce and gentle and hard and questioning all at once, this half-grown boy, and she can be dreamy and lost and angry, sometimes, and quiet, other times, with him, the solemn eyed girl-child of whom poor Matthew Cuthbert had been so ludicrously afraid. He is not safe, not the way Gilbert is safe--but sometimes even Gilbert is not safe anymore, when she looks up suddenly to see that strange yearning in clear hazel eyes and knows she can't give him what it is he'd ask of her--if he asked what she is afraid he might. Bran is not safe in the way that a fire is never quite safe, how it can go from cool candlelight to catch, blazing upon a hillside.
Fire on the mountainside will find the harp of gold
Gil is not like that. He is always there, a steady place for Anne to fall back upon
(I think you are just searching for a steady place to stand)
when it seems as though she is about to spin right off of the earth and out into the brilliant apocalypse that she sees beyond the wide windows, there to rescue her when she finds herself clinging to a bridge post, there to hold her together when she is feeling herself starting to shatter, fragile as any piece of glass.
Bran fascinates her, and she wonders at the gentleness in his fingers when he touches her cheek, at the warmth of his hand on hers, warmth that glows through her and she has to smile at him with shining starry eyes.
Gilbert makes her feel safe, and comfortable, and needed--the way Matthew, who was the first man to ever love her, made her feel. Except--except Gilbert is different, isn't he? Somehow, there is something she cannot quite see that makes, oh, all the difference in the world.
Because of Bran, she has stopped trying to open the door. Because of Bran, and the hurt that darkens the world for her everytime it remains closed.
Because of Gilbert, she knows that she has to try to open the door again. Because of Gilbert, and the confusion and the pain and the longing in his eyes, in the way he does not reach for her.
For now, though, she can rest her head against soft Welsh wool, and hear Bran's lilting voice speak to her, and close her eyes to the world, even if she isn't sure, exactly, why she wants to.
And perhaps that is alright, for now.