Freya began to fear that her time with Fratley had ruined how she saw love, how she experienced it, how she knew it was there. Now, as she turned a quick corner down a Lindblum street, glancing back to see if her pursuant had seen her (not sure if she wanted him to, not sure if she wanted to hang back a little, make sure he caught the sight of at least her tail flicking in retreat behind corner stone), she wondered if she was making a mistake. If, with every continued step she took, she was still making a mistake.
She slowed down after a few meters, ears twitching, trying to catch the sound of labored breathing, heavy footsteps, or the rough gravel of a voice spitting curses behind her. Nothing. She leant against a wall, breathing out a sigh. Disappointment or relief, she wasn't sure.
He had been chasing her for months now, like she was one of his bounties. He chased her like a hunter, and she found it more and more difficult to escape his broad-knuckled clutches, and the thought of being caught was as frightening as it was exhilarating.
Fratley, she thought, Fratley had ruined it all for her.
Love was the chase. The devotion that came with endless pursuit, the fear of never catching up, the need to keep searching for footsteps. Love was the willingness to follow forever. She thought of those nights, spent chasing a man that could have been a ghost for all she knew, clinging to the desperate hope that she would see him again. That was love. Love was the chase.
Her mind traveled with a hint of pain to when that chase had inevitably ended, and what she had gotten in return. Fratley…Fratley had ruined it. At the end of the chase there was…
…nothing.
She didn't expect it when it came, his pointed face inches from hers, an arm surrounding, almost encasing, her. She had forgotten how quiet he could be. She shivered.
"Don't you do it, woman," Amarant growled. He could tell she wanted to run. She hesitated, stayed. "Good," he said after a moment. She couldn't see his eyes (she could never see his eyes), but she had learned to read him. She could see some part of herself in him, and that frightened her.
"Amarant."
He could see her anxiety. He let out a puff of air through his nose. Frustrated. "We going to talk about this, or are you going to just keep running away, Rat?"
She let out a laugh that was a sorry attempt at flippant. "Why?" she asked, and the following question came out, a mix of hopefulness and fear (and how she hated herself at the thoughts that were attached to it, and how she couldn't stop them).
"Why?" She asked again. "Are you tired of chasing me?"
He hesitated. His next words filled her with a warmth she wish she felt more ashamed of.
Fratley had ruined everything.
"No," he said, bowing his head. Amarant had his own shame, it seemed. "No. Not yet."