He is wild, but she has never once worried about the roughness of his palms. She knows that she is as safe next to his feral nature than she is in the quietest of meadows and her trust knows no limits when he is by her side. So it does not cross her mind to be frightened of the man that she describes because he is the one describing it. Her heart is wholly trusting and full and she can only close her eyes to try and imagine what the man must have been like, piecing together the different details and stitching together the whole.
“Oh,” she breathes out, the edges of her lips curling slightly in the corners. “He must have been such a wonderful thing to see,” her voice still gentle as she imagines the majesty of his antlers and the depth of his darkness. She opens her sage green eyes again to study him before reaching over and breathing in the sweet scent of flowers that curl in his mane. “Our flowers are neat,” she smiles, “but yours are so much more beautiful.” There is no jealousy in her voice, just the truth that feels so readily apparent.
“I am sure that most scary things are nice,” she affirms, her voice always just a touch dreamy although never becoming breathy or delicate. She has inherited that steadiness of her mother that keeps her on this side of fragile. It makes her like calm waters, still and certain. “Do you know that there are those that would think father is scary?” She laughs a little, cheek against him, unable to contain the humor that she finds in the question. “And he is the kindest man I know. I am sure that everyone is just like that.”
She cannot fathom that the world would contain anything else.
as the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
@[Chronos]