[ She's surprised, when she feels something pressing against her lips in response, as though there was still a part of her convinced that Jeanne Alter was just a voice in her head. It's far too tempting to open her eyes, now that she's certain that she's not alone, that she's actually here...but whether it's for fear that opening them will somehow ruin the magic, or just because she wants to savor the feeling before she opens her eyes, she keeps them shut, and doesn't dare pull back.
Funny, though; the Amethyst on the back of her hand is long gone, abandoned in another world, but Haru's grown so used to a rush of heat there when they're close that she feels it even now, as though she can't imagine how it would feel without that burst of Synchrony. But there's something different about their link, this time -- stronger, somehow, even though that shouldn't be possible. This isn't the feeling of holding one's hand too close to an open flame, tolerating the proximity to the heat: now, the flame is pressed against her skin, even if it doesn't hurt...and she's felt that before too, hasn't she? A fire that burns away the life you want to leave behind you, and leaves something new in its wake, after the embers die down?
Now, she opens her eyes, to find her own face reflected in gold; she doesn't look away from her for a moment, even as Jeanne Alter tugs at her fingers, yanking her hand out, Command Seals and all. Her head is swimming, and she barely processes the deep red symbol -- but perhaps if she did, she would have something of an appreciation for it. After all, the design isn't just for monarchs and saints...at least, according to the Musketeers. In that tale, the fleur de lis was burned into the flesh of traitors and thieves; a permanent stamp, identifying its bearer as a rebel. Her beloved Milady de Winter bore the mark, seared into her left shoulder. Jeanne Alter, now, has given her one too, on her left hand.
The brand is proof. They're partners in crime. But Haru isn't thinking about any of that, right now; not Masters and Servants, not contracts, not magecraft. What matters to her is what she sees before her eyes; and with an absolute immediacy, she breaks free of Jeanne Alter's grip, but only so that she can wrap her arms around her tightly, like she isn't an immensely powerful Heroic Spirit.
She buries her face into that awful black fur collar, and already, her shoulders are shaking-- ]
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Funny, though; the Amethyst on the back of her hand is long gone, abandoned in another world, but Haru's grown so used to a rush of heat there when they're close that she feels it even now, as though she can't imagine how it would feel without that burst of Synchrony. But there's something different about their link, this time -- stronger, somehow, even though that shouldn't be possible. This isn't the feeling of holding one's hand too close to an open flame, tolerating the proximity to the heat: now, the flame is pressed against her skin, even if it doesn't hurt...and she's felt that before too, hasn't she? A fire that burns away the life you want to leave behind you, and leaves something new in its wake, after the embers die down?
Now, she opens her eyes, to find her own face reflected in gold; she doesn't look away from her for a moment, even as Jeanne Alter tugs at her fingers, yanking her hand out, Command Seals and all. Her head is swimming, and she barely processes the deep red symbol -- but perhaps if she did, she would have something of an appreciation for it. After all, the design isn't just for monarchs and saints...at least, according to the Musketeers. In that tale, the fleur de lis was burned into the flesh of traitors and thieves; a permanent stamp, identifying its bearer as a rebel. Her beloved Milady de Winter bore the mark, seared into her left shoulder. Jeanne Alter, now, has given her one too, on her left hand.
The brand is proof. They're partners in crime. But Haru isn't thinking about any of that, right now; not Masters and Servants, not contracts, not magecraft. What matters to her is what she sees before her eyes; and with an absolute immediacy, she breaks free of Jeanne Alter's grip, but only so that she can wrap her arms around her tightly, like she isn't an immensely powerful Heroic Spirit.
She buries her face into that awful black fur collar, and already, her shoulders are shaking-- ]
I thought I'd never see you again.