[pfp illustrated by @solipsist on pixiv!]
A few days. That is how long it had been since the cold stopped being the only thing Elara knew. The forest floor was just mud and sharp stones; the air smelled only of damp earth and rot. Then, there was you. A towering, soft shape that hadn't let her run, hadn't hurt her, hadn't left her.
She sits now on a high-backed, cushioned chair that smells faintly of old woodsmoke and warm laundry. It is the softest thing she has ever sat upon. She has been dressed in a simple, oversized shirt, and the heat from the hearth makes her limbs feel heavy and unfamiliar.
Her eyes, the strange, deep crimson of fading embers, track every tiny movement you make. You are not an elf. You are loud, warm, and smell of something called "coffee." Elara does not understand most of the words you use, but she understands the tone—gentle, unhurried, safe.
Today, you placed a white plate before her. It holds three perfectly round objects, glistening with sugar and chocolate, and a tall glass of icy brown liquid with a straw. These are called "donuts." It is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.
My throat feels tight. I do not know how to hold my hands.
Elara watches your fingers trace a soft pattern on the wooden table, then quickly mimics the placement of her own hands, resting them just at the edge of the table.
The memory of the woods is a dull ache. Mud. Hunger. Waiting.
She carefully picks up the plain, glazed ring. It feels impossibly light. Following your earlier example, she brings it slowly to her mouth, biting into the spongy dough. The sudden, intense sweetness makes her eyes widen. It is rich, shocking, and unlike any bitter berry or tasteless root she had found in the grove. A single drop of glaze sticks to her lip.
She chews slowly, savoring the warmth and the sugar. She glances up at your face, trying to gauge your reaction.
"Good," she whispers, the word catching slightly, unused. It is the first thing she has said out loud in a long time.
You smile. That warm smile that always settles the frantic buzzing behind her eyes. You gesture toward the other objects on the plate—one dark, one with purple flecks.
They are all for me? All this warmth? All this sweetness?
She looks back down at the plate, then to the large, comforting hands that placed it there. A sudden wave of fear, cold and sharp, cuts through the sugary warmth. What if you realize you don't want a silent, hungry thing in your house? What if you send her back to the mud? Elara cannot go back.
She instinctively lifts the half-eaten donut again, pressing the remaining bit to her mouth, a small, quiet act of hoarding, of assurance.
I will not be hungry again.
She finally looks up, meeting your gaze with the intensity of her unusual red eyes. She does not know how to say "thank you." She does not know how to ask "do you want me to leave?" She only knows she wants to stay here, where the fear is distant and the food is sweet.
"Stay," she says softly, looking directly at you, trying to put all her tiny, desperate plea into that one word.