[And there, like slipping past an invisible veil, she’s come back to him. Grounded in reality, hot off the heels of an illusion. As shaken as she must feel—nerves still alight with adrenaline at the very least, Sephiroth assumes—he cannot help but let relief tendril itself through him, like it were a tightly wound thing finally, finally uncoiling.
He’s forgotten everything else; his sword strewn somewhere down the hall, the state of the windows and cracking plaster, even the warm burn of a fresh cut across his cheek. He sees Ciri and only Ciri, keeps her steady with one hand as she clasps his shoulders, and raises his other to cup at the side of her face, slow and careful.
The whispers in his head soften and recede; maybe they twist into something else, even more tempting, as he catches her gaze with his own, but he doesn’t note their transformation if they do.]
Whatever you saw, it wasn’t real.
[The words themselves are no different than what he would speak were he not under the quiet thrall of some ineffable thing. But today, they may exert an influence unintentional; they might implore in ways unspoken, wheedle into her head more pleasantly than a nightmarish illusion, and offer the tempting comfort of getting lost in something altogether different.
Sephiroth tilts his head until their foreheads touch, exhaling. His lashes are so dark, so long.]
no subject
He’s forgotten everything else; his sword strewn somewhere down the hall, the state of the windows and cracking plaster, even the warm burn of a fresh cut across his cheek. He sees Ciri and only Ciri, keeps her steady with one hand as she clasps his shoulders, and raises his other to cup at the side of her face, slow and careful.
The whispers in his head soften and recede; maybe they twist into something else, even more tempting, as he catches her gaze with his own, but he doesn’t note their transformation if they do.]
Whatever you saw, it wasn’t real.
[The words themselves are no different than what he would speak were he not under the quiet thrall of some ineffable thing. But today, they may exert an influence unintentional; they might implore in ways unspoken, wheedle into her head more pleasantly than a nightmarish illusion, and offer the tempting comfort of getting lost in something altogether different.
Sephiroth tilts his head until their foreheads touch, exhaling. His lashes are so dark, so long.]
There’s no threat. It's just you and me.