The last thing she expects is for Gideon to come closer. More of that tight-jawed control from earlier, yes; storming away to start a grim series of drills with the rapier or press-ups seething with repressed fury, certainly. Gideon angry at something that isn't her is a rare experience, but not so uncommon Harrow doesn't have some sense of what her response will be. So when, instead of any of that, her cavalier gets to her knees and shuffles forward, eyes carefully fixed on the tile wall just behind the tub, something in Harrow's chest lurches and starts, a startled, staticky whine playing for a moment in her head.
Her only thought is that she looks like a penitent, and though Harrowhark Nonagesimus is a saint through the grace of the Necrolord Prime, Gideon Nav could never worship at her altar. No matter what understanding they've come to here, what truths both of them have confessed, that much is always going to be true.
Harrow stays still as death as Gideon keeps approaching, her hands frozen around the mug, her knees drawn up and her back curved in a protective hunch. When Gideon's golden, burning eyes find hers, Harrow tamps down hard on two opposite urges: to scrabble from the tub and run, and to move closer and choose a thing that could well be her doom. The soft promise, low and steely, sends her head into a spin. It takes her a moment to find any response at all.
"You cannot promise that for certain," she says. "Not as things stand outside of this place. But here...no. I won't be alone."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2021-07-22 07:34 pm (UTC)Her only thought is that she looks like a penitent, and though Harrowhark Nonagesimus is a saint through the grace of the Necrolord Prime, Gideon Nav could never worship at her altar. No matter what understanding they've come to here, what truths both of them have confessed, that much is always going to be true.
Harrow stays still as death as Gideon keeps approaching, her hands frozen around the mug, her knees drawn up and her back curved in a protective hunch. When Gideon's golden, burning eyes find hers, Harrow tamps down hard on two opposite urges: to scrabble from the tub and run, and to move closer and choose a thing that could well be her doom. The soft promise, low and steely, sends her head into a spin. It takes her a moment to find any response at all.
"You cannot promise that for certain," she says. "Not as things stand outside of this place. But here...no. I won't be alone."