His teeth set, an animal's feral snarl, where for a second, there he pauses - there, something flickers. Confused and furious at being confused.
Where he wants.
But he doesn't know what he wants. His shield-brother's call, loud, cacophonous in his mind even in the frozen minutes. The shattering of bone and wood and searing air that holds in his lungs and fills his mind. Clamouring with its vindication.
And the quietness, that quietness that has no place here, between each inhale, where she sits, like fire against cold bones. Heating from the inside out. When had he ever been touched softly?
He doesn't remember. He never remembers. His mind, a daze, hazed and confused, of seconds scattered with violent clarity. Sunk between stretches of swimming nothingness.
"I am Baresaad. I am Sten." His shoulders hold up and sharp. His spear gripped in his confusion. "I am not - I do not know -" Deimos. He does not know where he is supposed to go, be, should become, is.
But he knows her, and the breath is shaking in that knowledge.
"The Qun calls you Beresaad. Your brothers call you Sten," She holds his face in her hands, looking at him like she's trying to memorize his features in case she ever looks at him the way he just looked at her. Unseeing.
"Deimos is the name you gave when we met, remember? They called me Kabethari, and I corrected them. You didn't speak to me until they were gone," She tries to smile at the memory, but it hitches. "And when we were alone, I was yours."
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Where he wants.
But he doesn't know what he wants. His shield-brother's call, loud, cacophonous in his mind even in the frozen minutes. The shattering of bone and wood and searing air that holds in his lungs and fills his mind. Clamouring with its vindication.
And the quietness, that quietness that has no place here, between each inhale, where she sits, like fire against cold bones. Heating from the inside out. When had he ever been touched softly?
He doesn't remember. He never remembers. His mind, a daze, hazed and confused, of seconds scattered with violent clarity. Sunk between stretches of swimming nothingness.
"I am Baresaad. I am Sten." His shoulders hold up and sharp. His spear gripped in his confusion. "I am not - I do not know -" Deimos. He does not know where he is supposed to go, be, should become, is.
But he knows her, and the breath is shaking in that knowledge.
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"Deimos is the name you gave when we met, remember? They called me Kabethari, and I corrected them. You didn't speak to me until they were gone," She tries to smile at the memory, but it hitches. "And when we were alone, I was yours."