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For a long moment, he thought that she hadn’t heard him. Despite the strange echo of his voice, despite their close range and the way her lashes had fluttered open to reveal a flicker of startling blue, he doubted himself, for she was slow to speak. Inch by inch, her body shifted, rearranging herself—though whether or not it was in reaction to him, Jericho had trouble determining. It was as if he’d just awakened her from a long and deep sleep, and her mind was still half there, lost in the shadows and mists of some dream world that he could not hope to know.
He considered repeating himself, wondering if it would make a difference to this strange creature so caught in her reverie. But then something stirred in the air around them, and the breeze carried back a single word to his ears:
“No.”
The response was so gradual that it felt sudden, and Jericho was caught off guard, briefly forgetting what he’d asked her. And then her eyes met his, and he remembered—he had to, because the look alone implied the full answer to his question, one that had seemed friendly enough, but he now realized had been unintentionally loaded. No. No, she wasn’t all right.
It was etched in every line of her face and her body. She reminded him of a deer he’d startled a few days ago in the wood, one he’d come upon suddenly and startled into sheer terror. He’d been close enough to reach out and touch it, and still the creature hadn’t moved, only panted in rapid, shallow breaths as it stared back at him with wide, dark eyes that mirrored the exact expression that the stranger was giving him now.
It was fear.
Jericho felt as if he had intruded upon something that he should not have, and out of his depth, his skin crawled with discomfort. Was she afraid…of him? As soon as the thought occurred to him, he was caught between two impulses: one, to flee the scene and let the damage be done, or two, convince her that he meant no harm? Truly, a part of him wanted to wash his hands of this, to descend from the mountain and to head back into the woods and across the river, pretending it had never happened. Somehow, it seemed cowardly. But mostly, he could not abide the uncomfortable feeling of having brought pain to one undeserving of it. His conscience must be appeased.
“I’m sorry,” Jericho murmured, taking a slight step back so as not to intimidate her. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you…hurt? Let me help you—please,” he added at the last minute to soften his words.
"speech"
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