Bramblepoint Make it after all

She wasn't sure whether she agreed with his statement. And the way he had said it—cold, without warmth nor care, devoid of live—was not all that convincing, either.

Stark watched with calculating eyes. She could see it: looking back at him as he perceived every little bit of her, picked up on her mannerisms, seemed to take amusement in her weariness. And Georgia hated it. Her skin prickled beneath her otherwise pristine, pretty coat.

He started talking, then. Of Princeship, of a legacy. He gestured to the empty socket, hollow in all of its darkness. When he spoke of his past, or the lack thereof, a glimmer of something shone within his one good eye. And for a moment, a single, passing second, Georgia thought that it might be sadness. Sorrow. Yearning to remember something he had once lost.

That was when she realised that this was no dangerous man. No predator. But someone who was lost within the world. A husk. And something about her softened.

Maybe it's a good thang ya don't remember it, she tested, carefully. Her tone was precise, an attempt to comfort rather than offend. Maybe somethin' real bad happened and yer brain's tryna block it out. Ain't that a good thang?