
Her own posture became one of
reassurance in response to his uncertainty, and it managed to calm him somewhat, even when she came to a perplexing crouch by his feet. Shahar regarded her curiously as she took hold of the cloth in both hands, but even with his observations he was unprepared for the sudden touch. He tensed reflexively, but retained enough control to restrain the other powerful impulses to attempt to evade her. She wasn’t looking to harm him, that much was obvious, and so he remained stock-still as she began to wrap the strip of cloth around his ankle.
She was measuring him, he realized, and this, at least, managed to convince his mind that there was no danger iminent. His body was not as easy to persuade, although after a few moments of struggle he was able to clear his thoughts and tame his breath, and with a few more moments he managed to relax his ankle altogether––although, in the end, it was no easy task. Shahar was unused to such physical contact, even such sheer closeness with another human being; every touch sent a lance of adrenaline up his spine, making his heart flutter even while the leg itself did not react.
She make a mark on her paper with some charcoal, then moved up to his calf, then his thigh, each time marking down numbers. By the time she had risen to her full height, Shahar’s heart was pounding and his breath was shallow. She wrapped her arms around his waist, not truly touching him but still almost overwhelming him with how close she was to doing so––he couldn’t tell if that was better or worse––and then something happened, causing her to lose her grip on her cloth and sign a quick
oops of embarrassment.
She took ahold of the measuring tool once more.
“You saved me once,” she said, shattering the heavy silence.
“I don’t know if you’d even remember, but I’d found myself in a bad situation and I was expecting the worst to happen when you stepped in.”She slipped her arms under his, around to his back so she could take his measurements again. Even something as simple as the heat between their bodies charged him to his very bones with something he could not name, even as her words––quiet, almost whispers, but deafening in the space between them––sunk in. Shahar turned his head towards hers, as close as he could without allowing their faces to truly touch.
“Rue Nightsong.” Yes, he remembered her.
His voice wasn’t the harsh rasp it had been when he had last spoken to her; seasons of talking to Hope had managed to smooth it into something resembling a normal voice, one that was more gravelly than it was actually rough. But even with the practice behind him, he still spoke far more quietly than perhaps he should have, as quietly as one might speak to a skittish beast when wishing to keep it from fleeing––or perhaps it was the voice of the skittish beast, waiting with adrenaline pumping through its body for something to send it fleeing.