Her face hardens still further, and for a moment she looks as though she may spit at him, bring out more bile. Only for a moment. Then she looks away, and it is as though a veil passes across her face. "You're showing daylight at your seat," is all she says, her voice cool. "Relax your thighs, or you'll be more blister than man by the time we reach Ithilien." And she shifts in the saddle, nudging with her heels; as her horse starts forwards into a brisk trot, then a canter, she whistles sharply between her teeth so that Jack's mare knows to follow suit (whatever Jack himself might have to say about it).
Truth be told, she's sorry. Not forgiving, but sorry. He has a point - she was wrong to compare him to the Capitol, wrong to put him on anything like that level. Wrong, maybe, to expect anything else of him. But to admit that even to herself is a battle, and she won't even try to say it aloud. It would only come out wrong, and sour the air between them even more. Better to let it lie, let the hurt settle a while and see what comes of it. Better to let the wind in her hair and the sound of hoofbeats drown out the gall of guilt.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2016-04-11 11:19 pm (UTC)Truth be told, she's sorry. Not forgiving, but sorry. He has a point - she was wrong to compare him to the Capitol, wrong to put him on anything like that level. Wrong, maybe, to expect anything else of him. But to admit that even to herself is a battle, and she won't even try to say it aloud. It would only come out wrong, and sour the air between them even more. Better to let it lie, let the hurt settle a while and see what comes of it. Better to let the wind in her hair and the sound of hoofbeats drown out the gall of guilt.