[For her. So that's what it was, then — her explanation, colored by his bashfulness, offered up in mitigation once she'd coaxed it out of him. A patronizing name, or so he calls it. A bit of affection, spoken, to go with the expression that she remembers him wearing while he looked at her.
Hearthfire. That's how he sees her, he says; that's the word that comes to mind when a moment passes between them like the one last night. As though she is the fire that warms his home, a light to make his shadows withdraw, burning red-orange in tandem with his own gold and moonlight white.
He always compares her to fire, doesn't he? And not just to flames in particular but to heat, to the sensation of being warm. Sometimes he teases her about it, with more unflattering nicknames than this one, but always he acknowledges her as the warm spot in the room, his foil when he himself is so often cold.
(It surprises her, a little, to consider that. In his worse moments, she sometimes perceives him as a deep well of sadness, withdrawn in a way that gives off a chill. It's never really occurred to her that he might harbor similar thoughts of her in return, perceiving her as the warmest place in a room, a burning flame that night moths couldn't help but be drawn to.)
His fire, but not just any fire. The one that burns in his hearth. The one that burns in his heart.
And he thinks such a thing is patronizing.]
Why don't you voice it?
[She's barely even noticed that her cheeks have flushed; now even her face is hot, further proving his point.]
no subject
[For her. So that's what it was, then — her explanation, colored by his bashfulness, offered up in mitigation once she'd coaxed it out of him. A patronizing name, or so he calls it. A bit of affection, spoken, to go with the expression that she remembers him wearing while he looked at her.
Hearthfire. That's how he sees her, he says; that's the word that comes to mind when a moment passes between them like the one last night. As though she is the fire that warms his home, a light to make his shadows withdraw, burning red-orange in tandem with his own gold and moonlight white.
He always compares her to fire, doesn't he? And not just to flames in particular but to heat, to the sensation of being warm. Sometimes he teases her about it, with more unflattering nicknames than this one, but always he acknowledges her as the warm spot in the room, his foil when he himself is so often cold.
(It surprises her, a little, to consider that. In his worse moments, she sometimes perceives him as a deep well of sadness, withdrawn in a way that gives off a chill. It's never really occurred to her that he might harbor similar thoughts of her in return, perceiving her as the warmest place in a room, a burning flame that night moths couldn't help but be drawn to.)
His fire, but not just any fire. The one that burns in his hearth. The one that burns in his heart.
And he thinks such a thing is patronizing.]
Why don't you voice it?
[She's barely even noticed that her cheeks have flushed; now even her face is hot, further proving his point.]
Am I not always that to you?