@fighterwheeler // continued from ( here ).
although he would not argue with the decision aloud, the foremost question in Crow’s mind is: why does Rose want her? the kid’s interesting, and she’s certainly older than Pea and Pod ( thank fucking god ), but she’s hardly that special. she’s a nice enough kid ––––– but she’s just lucky, and fortune has always favoured the True to begin with ( it is a steady guarantee, whereas Nancy is not ). beneath the brim of his hat, Crow watches her, indecision and determination flickering in and out of existence over her pretty little face, like waves lapping at the shore then retreating, never settling. a strange sight. she has yet to have a True name, but in the relative privacy of his own mind, Crow had taken to calling her Spitfire Nancy.
indecision ( fear ) sits ill on her shoulders.
to her credit, her voice doesn’t quiver as she addresses him ( in turn, he graciously avoids remarking on her tears. ), and he wonders if it is reassurance she seeks. Rose would give it to her. but Crow. . . his hands come to rest just beneath the slope of her shoulders, large and warm and alive — slightly calloused — working hands that contradict his rube profession ( hands that chop wood... and sharpen knives. ) he turns her around to face him and his hands remain on her, dark eyes pinning her in place.
“ yeah, ” he says. because yes, it does, and because Crow can be generally trusted ( both with and ) to speak the truth. “ it hurts like hell. worse than anything you’ve ever known. ” it’s not a pretty truth, but ugliness needs acknowledging all the same. the unspoken message slips between the spoken words and his tight-lipped smile: brace yourself. “ you have to want it. ” you have to want it, his inflection stresses. “ you have to want to live. do you, Nancy? ”
