[Witches' Horses] Winter
Title: lie
’Verse/characters: Morozko; [nameless]
Prompt: 66C "stranger"
Word Count: 298
Notes: Follows shh. Requested by klgaffney, who technically only requested Siberia.
"You should be cold," the stranger tells her, and she blinks, slowly, shakes her head at him as her mind starts to turn again.
His furs are very rich, thick, heavily stitched in coloured threads, but she's never seen the patterns before. As the leader's daughter she's seen most of the neighbouring tribes' work, even been courted by a few young men still in their mothers' work.
But this, this is something else again. No mother would stitch this heavily, this thickly, even for an only son. The shapes remind her of stories about icicles, the white-blue of water ice and the shape of skinning blades.
He sits down beside her, the edges of their furs brushing together, and her next breath is a puff of white.
"Aren't you cold?" he asks again, and she shakes her head, wondering how she got to be so warm.
If she were home, she would bring out furs for him to sit on, fat for him to chew, water or something stronger to drink, the shared warmth of her whole tribe gathered around a stranger who will give them new stories, even if he is a bad storyteller. But she is not home, and even if she were there would be precious little to share with a guest.
Which is why she is here, watching her breath bloom in white clouds, and she does not flinch when a hand either so cold or so warm that it burns against her skin touches her face, turns her head to the stranger.
She lowers her eyes, looks at the front of his furs as he examines her face the way a potential husband would, curious and calculating.
"You're not lying," he tells her, surprised, and lets her go.
She looks up at him, just as surprised. "I was not raised to lie."
’Verse/characters: Morozko; [nameless]
Prompt: 66C "stranger"
Word Count: 298
Notes: Follows shh. Requested by klgaffney, who technically only requested Siberia.
"You should be cold," the stranger tells her, and she blinks, slowly, shakes her head at him as her mind starts to turn again.
His furs are very rich, thick, heavily stitched in coloured threads, but she's never seen the patterns before. As the leader's daughter she's seen most of the neighbouring tribes' work, even been courted by a few young men still in their mothers' work.
But this, this is something else again. No mother would stitch this heavily, this thickly, even for an only son. The shapes remind her of stories about icicles, the white-blue of water ice and the shape of skinning blades.
He sits down beside her, the edges of their furs brushing together, and her next breath is a puff of white.
"Aren't you cold?" he asks again, and she shakes her head, wondering how she got to be so warm.
If she were home, she would bring out furs for him to sit on, fat for him to chew, water or something stronger to drink, the shared warmth of her whole tribe gathered around a stranger who will give them new stories, even if he is a bad storyteller. But she is not home, and even if she were there would be precious little to share with a guest.
Which is why she is here, watching her breath bloom in white clouds, and she does not flinch when a hand either so cold or so warm that it burns against her skin touches her face, turns her head to the stranger.
She lowers her eyes, looks at the front of his furs as he examines her face the way a potential husband would, curious and calculating.
"You're not lying," he tells her, surprised, and lets her go.
She looks up at him, just as surprised. "I was not raised to lie."