[Witches' Horses] Falcons' Feathers
Title: musing
'Verse/characters: Falcons' Feathers; Irina
Prompt: 97D "safety"
Word Count: 295
Notes: Part 1, after they meet, before they're involved.
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Before meeting him, she'd never associated the interior of a horse with safety. Freedom, yes, fear, sometimes, triumph, adrenaline rushes and the feel of challenging herself to go that little bit further, that little bit faster, that extra swoop that pulled grace from simple transportation. Horses were an escape, for her, a way of forgetting what decorum said she should be, instead of what she suspected she actually was.
But him--she frowned, chewing at the edge of her thumb so she wouldn't chew her lower lip. He relaxed in the saddle in a way she just didn't, secure in his seat and his place and even more daring at stunts than she was because of it.
He'd been shocked when she threw herself off her horse at him, at his.
She curled herself a little more comfortably into the cradle of her borrowed horse's saddle and thought about that, again, the look on his face and the way he'd reacted.
At the time she'd felt triumph thread through her fury, that she'd finally gotten a reaction that wasn't laughter. Laughter from behind that damnable--and she hated herself for thinking it at the same time as she could not think of any other sentiment--mask of his, the one that hid his face and let him let convoy drivers imagine an older man leading the raids.
Now she rather wondered what had been going through his head. He'd dragged her back to her own horse, shivering and hissing demands for the return of her pearls through chattering teeth.
He hadn't bothered masking his face, just wrapped her in blankets that smelled like his horse, shook his shaggy head in a slow, disbelieving way, when she repeated her demand for her necklace's remains, and hadn't said a word.
'Verse/characters: Falcons' Feathers; Irina
Prompt: 97D "safety"
Word Count: 295
Notes: Part 1, after they meet, before they're involved.
---------
Before meeting him, she'd never associated the interior of a horse with safety. Freedom, yes, fear, sometimes, triumph, adrenaline rushes and the feel of challenging herself to go that little bit further, that little bit faster, that extra swoop that pulled grace from simple transportation. Horses were an escape, for her, a way of forgetting what decorum said she should be, instead of what she suspected she actually was.
But him--she frowned, chewing at the edge of her thumb so she wouldn't chew her lower lip. He relaxed in the saddle in a way she just didn't, secure in his seat and his place and even more daring at stunts than she was because of it.
He'd been shocked when she threw herself off her horse at him, at his.
She curled herself a little more comfortably into the cradle of her borrowed horse's saddle and thought about that, again, the look on his face and the way he'd reacted.
At the time she'd felt triumph thread through her fury, that she'd finally gotten a reaction that wasn't laughter. Laughter from behind that damnable--and she hated herself for thinking it at the same time as she could not think of any other sentiment--mask of his, the one that hid his face and let him let convoy drivers imagine an older man leading the raids.
Now she rather wondered what had been going through his head. He'd dragged her back to her own horse, shivering and hissing demands for the return of her pearls through chattering teeth.
He hadn't bothered masking his face, just wrapped her in blankets that smelled like his horse, shook his shaggy head in a slow, disbelieving way, when she repeated her demand for her necklace's remains, and hadn't said a word.