[ Hilda knows that she's forgotten something crucial the moment the wyvern is encased in her arms. They're on a roof. Several feet up the ground. A fall from this height wouldn't be fatal but it would hurt and Hilda hated getting hurt and not just in an instinctual, humans shy from pain sort of way. She was hurt averse in a cultivated over several years sort of way where she immediately shut down any risk where she foresaw that happening.
She braces herself waiting for gravity to take its hold, but a similar sensation to the one she had experienced at the warehouse occurs instead. Strong, warm arms encircle her, pulling her close and suddenly instead of blue skies all she can see are a beloved pair of green eyes staring back at her. A small cry of protest from between them signals that their new charge is very unhappy with this turn of events, but the bird it had been hunting is long gone and Hilda is too entranced by how close Claude is to her to rectify it. They're close enough that she can see the way gold catches in the green of his eyes, close enough to catch the hint of pine on his skin and parchment on his clothes signaling he must have been balancing books before arriving here.
Unbeknownst to her the thoughts running through her mind are of a similar nature to the ones flashing through Claude's. His fall had dislodged some of his hair and were she not holding the wyvern, she would have reached out to brush it back into place. Even that phantom action doesn't come without an attached memory of times when she had done that for him on lazy warm days hidden expertly in the garden when they had skipped a class and she fondly watched him dozing off under the sun like a cat. Or times when they had been pressed together between sheets, bathing in the afterglow with the light sheen of sweat on his forehead and what she wanted to be affection lingering in the air.
In that moment that they stare at one another Hilda's mind goes blank before her insecurities begin rushing in. What had she had for lunch and did her breath smell? Had the make-up under her eyes smudged during her work earlier, dislodging the illusion of nights well slept? Can he feel how hard her heart is hammering in her chest? Oh Goddess, he had been waiting for her to say something, hadn't he? Claude doesn't have to ask the question again. It lingers in the air unspoken between them but whatever loose threads of bravery she had pulled together feel like they've flown off with the bird. ]
Uhm -
[ Heat seers her cheeks. If she didn't say it now, then when? A part of her wants to take the easy way out: she wants to kiss him and hope that whatever feelings she's never been able to express will translate into that and be enough. But not talking, not communicating had been the root of hurt that had started it all. Her feelings whirl inside her demanding to be felt, all pleading to be expressed as they sit just behind her teeth. There's so much she could tell him but one sentiment rings true: That all versions of her - who she is now, whoever she might be, whatever is left of her after the war in their timeline or someone else's - is his. It's always been his. It always would be even if he chose another heart to hold or flew off to Almyra and never looked back.
But her eloquence and flowery words are choked by weeds and roots and she falters again just in time for the wyvern to let out a piercing screech, apparently fed up with being squished. Its talons flail narrowly scratching Claude's face but scratching hers. She lets out a cry that is more surprise than pain but she still holds fast, wiggling backwards so there's some room for the wyvern to breathe and putting space between her and Claude. ]
I was going to say I think I had a name for it but I might have to suggest something like 'Sharp Claw' instead.
[ It's said with a huff that is equal parts both exasperated and weary. Her eyes begin to water from the sting and red begins to bloom from the shallow scratch on her cheek. ]
no subject
She braces herself waiting for gravity to take its hold, but a similar sensation to the one she had experienced at the warehouse occurs instead. Strong, warm arms encircle her, pulling her close and suddenly instead of blue skies all she can see are a beloved pair of green eyes staring back at her. A small cry of protest from between them signals that their new charge is very unhappy with this turn of events, but the bird it had been hunting is long gone and Hilda is too entranced by how close Claude is to her to rectify it. They're close enough that she can see the way gold catches in the green of his eyes, close enough to catch the hint of pine on his skin and parchment on his clothes signaling he must have been balancing books before arriving here.
Unbeknownst to her the thoughts running through her mind are of a similar nature to the ones flashing through Claude's. His fall had dislodged some of his hair and were she not holding the wyvern, she would have reached out to brush it back into place. Even that phantom action doesn't come without an attached memory of times when she had done that for him on lazy warm days hidden expertly in the garden when they had skipped a class and she fondly watched him dozing off under the sun like a cat. Or times when they had been pressed together between sheets, bathing in the afterglow with the light sheen of sweat on his forehead and what she wanted to be affection lingering in the air.
In that moment that they stare at one another Hilda's mind goes blank before her insecurities begin rushing in. What had she had for lunch and did her breath smell? Had the make-up under her eyes smudged during her work earlier, dislodging the illusion of nights well slept? Can he feel how hard her heart is hammering in her chest? Oh Goddess, he had been waiting for her to say something, hadn't he? Claude doesn't have to ask the question again. It lingers in the air unspoken between them but whatever loose threads of bravery she had pulled together feel like they've flown off with the bird. ]
Uhm -
[ Heat seers her cheeks. If she didn't say it now, then when? A part of her wants to take the easy way out: she wants to kiss him and hope that whatever feelings she's never been able to express will translate into that and be enough. But not talking, not communicating had been the root of hurt that had started it all. Her feelings whirl inside her demanding to be felt, all pleading to be expressed as they sit just behind her teeth. There's so much she could tell him but one sentiment rings true: That all versions of her - who she is now, whoever she might be, whatever is left of her after the war in their timeline or someone else's - is his. It's always been his. It always would be even if he chose another heart to hold or flew off to Almyra and never looked back.
But her eloquence and flowery words are choked by weeds and roots and she falters again just in time for the wyvern to let out a piercing screech, apparently fed up with being squished. Its talons flail narrowly scratching Claude's face but scratching hers. She lets out a cry that is more surprise than pain but she still holds fast, wiggling backwards so there's some room for the wyvern to breathe and putting space between her and Claude. ]
I was going to say I think I had a name for it but I might have to suggest something like 'Sharp Claw' instead.
[ It's said with a huff that is equal parts both exasperated and weary. Her eyes begin to water from the sting and red begins to bloom from the shallow scratch on her cheek. ]