[ The anger in his voice has an immediate effect: the raging boil of her own blood in response, a heat churning in her veins that freezes into a solid, freezing cold glare as it surfaces, leaving her skin prickling all over with gooseflesh, her folded arms tightening around her chest as if she can somehow warm up by hugging herself. In the next moment, though, what follows it is embarrassed shame as his words settle, as she is forced to remember that he is not here trying to embarrass her, nor even to make her life more difficult; he stumbled across her by chance and is, despite their differences, trying to help. And in his anger, he asks a question that cuts to her core: is she really choosing potential death over letting him help her? Is she truly that stubborn, that determined to keep him at arm's length just because he chose a different path than she?
And then, underscoring that, a different feeling but borne of the same moment, the feeling not just of cold but of loss. His arms around her felt safe, not just warm but secure; despite herself, she liked it.
(That makes her angry in an entirely different way... but this is neither the time nor the place for it.)
She sighs. ]
...I'm sorry.
[ They're hard words to say; under any other circumstance she'd probably be swearing vengeance on him for making her feel as if she had to say them; as it is, though, she feels tired, defeated by the cold and by the anger she knows he's entirely justified for feeling.
By now, her lips are starting to turn blue, her skin paler than usual, and her arms tighten once more across her chest. She takes a step toward him, and then another; trembling, she gestures toward him, to her abandoned bedroll. ]
no subject
And then, underscoring that, a different feeling but borne of the same moment, the feeling not just of cold but of loss. His arms around her felt safe, not just warm but secure; despite herself, she liked it.
(That makes her angry in an entirely different way... but this is neither the time nor the place for it.)
She sighs. ]
...I'm sorry.
[ They're hard words to say; under any other circumstance she'd probably be swearing vengeance on him for making her feel as if she had to say them; as it is, though, she feels tired, defeated by the cold and by the anger she knows he's entirely justified for feeling.
By now, her lips are starting to turn blue, her skin paler than usual, and her arms tighten once more across her chest. She takes a step toward him, and then another; trembling, she gestures toward him, to her abandoned bedroll. ]
May I?