[he doesn't expect her to pick apart the themes of his story, though. this is not literature class, and essays analyzing the intent of his work are not required. the ballad. . . it only gets him partway there. it opens the door, and makes the things he wants to say in after it a little. . . easier. but he still needs to muster up the courage. . . to be truthful about why he did this]
[he sees her foot move, a half step in the direction he does not want (away from him, to some place he cannot follow, no matter how much he may want to), and his breath catches in his throat]
. . . I did. [softly, but with that sort of firmness in his tone that comes with absolute certainty] For you.
[he shared it with absolutely no one, not even when interrupted during his writing. it was for her, and she is the only one who gets to see it]
And-- um, thank you. [some pink blossoms on his cheeks as he fiddles with his book, running his gloved fingers across the spine] I don't think I'm the best at. . . expressing how I feel through verbal words.
[his eloquence is only rank three! he has debated other king candidates back home, but some of them probably went poorly]
It's easier when I put quill to parchment. [. . .] But you deserve more than that, too.
[she deserves to hear it directly from his lips, and he thinks. . . maybe now, he can say it]
no subject
[he doesn't expect her to pick apart the themes of his story, though. this is not literature class, and essays analyzing the intent of his work are not required. the ballad. . . it only gets him partway there. it opens the door, and makes the things he wants to say in after it a little. . . easier. but he still needs to muster up the courage. . . to be truthful about why he did this]
[he sees her foot move, a half step in the direction he does not want (away from him, to some place he cannot follow, no matter how much he may want to), and his breath catches in his throat]
. . . I did. [softly, but with that sort of firmness in his tone that comes with absolute certainty] For you.
[he shared it with absolutely no one, not even when interrupted during his writing. it was for her, and she is the only one who gets to see it]
And-- um, thank you. [some pink blossoms on his cheeks as he fiddles with his book, running his gloved fingers across the spine] I don't think I'm the best at. . . expressing how I feel through verbal words.
[his eloquence is only rank three! he has debated other king candidates back home, but some of them probably went poorly]
It's easier when I put quill to parchment. [. . .] But you deserve more than that, too.
[she deserves to hear it directly from his lips, and he thinks. . . maybe now, he can say it]