Sun Mote Copse A runaway once more

     Her words were icy to his ears. Once melodious chords turned austere in audity and demeanor. What was care without love? What was love without certainty? He had been told in his younger life that you always knew when something was right. Had she truly not known? It hurt him even more to think that this wonderful woman had ever known anything short of affection. She doesn't know. He told himself. She doesn't understand. But he remained quiet; an abstraction of his former energy. 

     She met his gaze and he held his resilience, gaze hard and guarded; aesthetically impassive. "I don't know." He whispered, his tongue loose and words soft. A light drizzle speckled his fur, rain stepping gingerly across the earth as it fell from the darkened mass of clouds above. As he spoke, his tone grew increasingly harsher in tone. He was angry - angry at the world for being so cruel. No, he wasn't mad at Feyre. He was mad at whatever forces had been so merciless to this fae he walked beside. Whoever had branded her unsuitable for love and passion. He looked at the sky and growled, frustrated and glaring.

     "I just thought that... That if you loved something you wouldn't need to question it. It would just sort of - sort of, I don't know, be there." He looked at his chest. "You shouldn't have to have it explained to you. Like, if you wanted something, would you ask it whether you did or not?" He sighed. This was difficult. He had assumed that Feyre would know whether she loved him. He had assumed that, by gaining her trust, she had been willing to accept his own. Yet, now she seemed so distant. It scared him. "If you loved me, you would feel it. Something you couldn't explain..." He stopped and stared at her, letting his stolid gaze rest upon hers. His eyes were glassy; vacant. "When I look at you, I know I never want to leave you. Maybe that's why it's so difficult for you. Because you know that you could leave, right now, before it's too late."