she tilts her head, giving his back an inquisitive look that lingers even after the door clicks closed. what...did he mean to say? she wishes she had a better read on him in times like that. or...in general. he still surprises her -- mostly for the better, if she were to keep score, but even so...
well. she can't spend that time just...conjuring up mysterious claims with no basis; that's not only nervewracking, but exhausting to even consider. instead she takes to meandering around the rest of her little living space, seeing to some of the chores she'd left behind on that fateful day. after setting some glasses of water down on the coffee table, she starts to unclip the greaves on her legs. for the first time in so many days, her knees and shins get some air...gods, it feels weird. good, but weird. same feeling she'd had when Archie helped her get out of the gauntlets and pauldrons. shedding a second skin...
straightening up, her fingers trail to her belt. Falchion's belt and scabbard... she feels a weight in her chest as she unbuckles and withdraws it from herself, watching the material dangle limply from the belt length.
even if her father wouldn't hold it against her, giving up that most holy blade...she can't help but hold herself accountable. maybe there was something else she could've given in its stead. but the idea of sacrificing her memories? her precious feelings? even the painful ones...they're all so important. she's already afraid of all the times others port out, how they'd come to forget her. how some had, upon return. Thor. Padme.
it's why she'd been so relieved when Guzma found her again, remembered her.
she'll remember Falchion, too. having it, earning it...losing it. those memories will stay, and she'll fight anyone who tries to wrench them free of her.
for now, though, this belt and the remains of this armor will get carefully placed near the wicker chair Archie made for her. the laundry chair.]
no subject
she tilts her head, giving his back an inquisitive look that lingers even after the door clicks closed. what...did he mean to say? she wishes she had a better read on him in times like that. or...in general. he still surprises her -- mostly for the better, if she were to keep score, but even so...
well. she can't spend that time just...conjuring up mysterious claims with no basis; that's not only nervewracking, but exhausting to even consider. instead she takes to meandering around the rest of her little living space, seeing to some of the chores she'd left behind on that fateful day. after setting some glasses of water down on the coffee table, she starts to unclip the greaves on her legs. for the first time in so many days, her knees and shins get some air...gods, it feels weird. good, but weird. same feeling she'd had when Archie helped her get out of the gauntlets and pauldrons. shedding a second skin...
straightening up, her fingers trail to her belt. Falchion's belt and scabbard... she feels a weight in her chest as she unbuckles and withdraws it from herself, watching the material dangle limply from the belt length.
even if her father wouldn't hold it against her, giving up that most holy blade...she can't help but hold herself accountable. maybe there was something else she could've given in its stead. but the idea of sacrificing her memories? her precious feelings? even the painful ones...they're all so important. she's already afraid of all the times others port out, how they'd come to forget her. how some had, upon return. Thor. Padme.
it's why she'd been so relieved when Guzma found her again, remembered her.
she'll remember Falchion, too. having it, earning it...losing it. those memories will stay, and she'll fight anyone who tries to wrench them free of her.
for now, though, this belt and the remains of this armor will get carefully placed near the wicker chair Archie made for her. the laundry chair.]