You've made me feel is, in a strange way, enough. After all, what is poetry for, if not to make one feel? And she does not seem insulted - despite the sudden surge of anxiety he feels when he realises which portrait she means - and she does not seem to be stumbling to hide her distaste; in other words, better than he might have feared, and more than enough to be complimentary. He relaxes a little, his shoulders visibly losing some of their tension, and smiles.
"I am flattered," he says warmly, honestly. What else is there to say but that? It is a strange feeling; he has never shown his work so freely to anyone since Boromir died. Beregond has had sight of it a few times, and Faramir is in writing groups and classes who have, of course, seen some of his work - but to let it entirely out of his hands has become a foreign thing, and it is, above all, a huge relief to see it well-received, without disappointment. He wonders, too, at the blush that has appeared rose-pink on her cheeks. He cannot help but note how it warms her whole expression, and makes her prettier still. "And relieved. I would hate to feel I had insulted you by mistake." With the portrait, he means, of course; sketching is something he is far less comfortable with than words, and it has none of the anonymous abstraction of poetry.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2021-10-10 09:52 pm (UTC)"I am flattered," he says warmly, honestly. What else is there to say but that? It is a strange feeling; he has never shown his work so freely to anyone since Boromir died. Beregond has had sight of it a few times, and Faramir is in writing groups and classes who have, of course, seen some of his work - but to let it entirely out of his hands has become a foreign thing, and it is, above all, a huge relief to see it well-received, without disappointment. He wonders, too, at the blush that has appeared rose-pink on her cheeks. He cannot help but note how it warms her whole expression, and makes her prettier still. "And relieved. I would hate to feel I had insulted you by mistake." With the portrait, he means, of course; sketching is something he is far less comfortable with than words, and it has none of the anonymous abstraction of poetry.