Her name was a powerful, two syllabic charm. Whatever words she was going to hit him over the head with were derailed, losing all of their air. Vera opened her mouth only to close it the moment after, caught off guard. Color came too quickly to her cheeks. Eragos might as well have walked over and put his fingers over her lips.
She had not shouted, she...
She had for a very long time, wished he would speak her name in such a way. Now he had. There was never anything but reverence in the way Eragos said Lady Vera; she never hated his use of her title. Yet if a name was a limb of the soul, adjectives distracted from what they described. She loved him. Vera did not want a grand gesture or flourish; those books he read (which Bahn was right about) were full of chivalric verse. All Vera wanted was just…just her name in a room that was quiet and dark. She had never been able to ask before. If she asked, Eragos could refuse. And if she asked once, she might never ask again.
Just her name, plainly spoken. How could she explain?
Vera had shouted. She should have felt more shame. She was supposed to a be a calm follower of Tyr. Her heartbeat reverberated deep in her chest and quieted her glare. It happened too easily, the ebb and flow of emotion she had for Eragos.
Vera's stillness now could not be blamed on her grief. It was not grief in her eyes when he finally turned toward her, but something warm. Something alive. Her inhale made her lips feel frozen while her face felt hot. Her hand, far more skeptical than any other part of her, relaxed slowly from a fist.
Eragos’ face was like the dark wall of a storm. She could not tell if there would be thunder or snow, but would take either.
“Yes,” Vera said, her voice softer though no less stubborn. “But only if saying sorry means you will have me.”