Wapun Meadow victorian writer 2 steps away from dying of brain fever

The faintest hitch caught somewhere between her throat and lungs at that: “What happened?” And then her heart seized, as it always would, at the sound of her name sifting from his tongue. The gentleness there, how it was practically cradled in his chords— “Verrrcingetorix,” she chirruped, unbidden, if only because she hadn’t spoken his in... hell, a moon, now?

Instead, she eluded his previous enquiry and clumsily continued with, ”Blodreina ste ticha os.” Aure brought her gaze back to meet his own, but found his lingering on the left side of her features. Only hours ago, she’d presented it to the wanlinda’s mate; hours ago, the memory of Verx had grounded her, made her finally look at herself.

And now that he was here, looking at her— at her— this— this was—

Humiliation, simmering and sweltering, enshrouded her from throat to hips in an unforgiving veil. The longer she looked into that broad face, the more she needed to touch, wanted to tell him who it’d been. “Verx, it,” But she was shaking her head, quivering imperceptibly, “No, no, I’m— Verx, I never— it was—“ And then she retreated a pace or two, suddenly, as if she’d thought of darting away, now stilled, rooted in place.

Untapped body trembling with the restraint of telling, breath thinning from her lungs; more vulnerable than even the Diasporians had seen her, and she felt so... livid with herself. “Verx.” His name was so cloying on her tongue, coming out strained, she didn’t know why she kept saying it: Verx, Verx, like it grounded her even as they spoke.

So Aure canted her head to the left, so the more hideous side of herself was temporarily hidden from his view; eyeing up at her inked guardian with such conflict within as a shaky breath receeded from her. “Verx.” Again, like it was the only damn word she’d ever learned; so she closed her eyes, brow furrowing.