"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
She is tired.
She is tired, she is angry, and she is hurt –
her once tightly bound, carefully guarded heart left on display; an open, gaping wound.
It had been many days, many months since she had seen him, and though the betrayal that had once festered within her sordid blood no longer blistered, and the anguish that had seized her no longer stifled, a definitive ache has settled into the small crevices of her broken heart. He was not terrible, no – his fervid kisses, his strength, poise and wisdom always a lit beacon in the dark, but he was broken – pieced together by the sheer force and will beyond his own, forced to live a tired life that had been a heavy burden on his shoulders.
She could not mend his wounds; she could not quiet the deeply woven fears that remained so delicately threaded into his very existence. He was only a fragment of what he had once been; and though she had come to love the broken pieces of him, he had never been hers to keep, and so she had let him go. While her heart longed for him (for the warmth of his shoulder against her own, for the quiet rumbling of his whiskey-rich voice), Magnus deserved more – and perhaps, she – no.
She would not give her heart away again.
A breathy sigh emerges from her flared nostrils, as the frigid, salty breeze weaves it way through her pale, ashy tresses, which lay against the damp nape of her neck – the mist from the crashing, crushing waves of the tireless sea draping itself over her golden skin. Her pace is light, and carefree – wandering the rim of the ocean, as her hazel eyes stare at the wet, compacted sand as it gives way to the weight of her four-beat pace stride. Her mind is elsewhere, but the soft crooning of seagulls and the lull of the roaring shoreline is soothing – a brief reprieve for her assiduous mind.
Finally, her gold-rimmed eyes raise from the coastline, searching the wavering tendrils of dried vegetation lining the beach – finding a familiar face framed by the hazy sky behind him. Warrick. Russet and painted with deep indigo, he is stark against the pale gray of the skyline, and she is soon moving towards him, tucking her broad, white wings tightly against her sides as the bristling wind sends a shiver coursing down her spine.
”Warrick,” she says over the roar of an oncoming wave, a shadow of a smile hiding at the corners of her whiskered lips. ”it has been a while. How are you?”
He stirs; a dark shadow along the horizon, moving slow and methodically beside the shoreline. White and frothing waves pool at his hooves, his indigo legs darkening from the spray. The ocean was rough today – a sign of an incoming storm, perhaps? It churns and foams, the sound of each rolling and crashing wave almost overlapping each other in quick succession. The sea wind ripples the long and tangled black of his mane and tail, crisp with salt as it scratches roughly against his russet skin.
He is tired, too.
Warrick feels himself slipping away, melting into the background of the tropical and lush land of Tephra. His grasp is loosening, strength fading. He closes his eyes, auburn lids shrouding the brilliant blue, and inhales deeply. He’s forgetting them. His mind races to try to remember all the details of their face, the exact melody of their voices…but it only comes to him in bits and pieces. It frightens him that his mind is slowly forgetting their existence, thus torturing himself with their memory. It would be a dishonor to forget his family.
Eyes of the brightest blue appear suddenly as his lids open, ears pricking forwards as his head turns to meet her. Even with the constant crash of wave against sand, her voice is clear and solid as it reaches him. He recognized her voice before he had even seen her, allowing a smile to find his cobalt lips. The bay stallion extends his head towards her, neck outstretched, to gently brush her muzzle with his own in greeting. Blue nostrils flare as he exchanges breath, in some way finding comfort in her presence. He felt brighter somehow; like he was not as empty as he was a moment before.
“Ellyse,” he says her name respectfully, his voice as deep and rough as the ocean’s tumultuous waves that continue to splash their legs. He watches her for a moment, soaking in her presence. The hard lines on her face were easy to see, though Ellyse always was a strong, stoic woman to begin with. Something else lingers there, though. Something that pricks Warrick in a way that he knows is familiar, something distinctive and powerful. His smile flickers into a thin line, concern showing in his blue eyes. He then looks back out towards the ocean, snorting softly, gathering his thoughts.
In answer to her question, he only says: “I feel adrift.”
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
His smile is a comfort to her - a solid port in a wayward storm, in the hurricane that has wracked her mind. She observes the gentle creases that lay at the edges of his whiskered mouth, the way each one twitches faintly in a slight uptick. A sign of warmth, of familiarity, and a beacon of light in her otherwise dark and dreary day.
There are not many she can lay claim to in terms of closeness - her daughters and son hold what jagged, frigid pieces of her heart that remain, and her love for them is unwavering, and Magnus had become her closest companion - yet she never let anyone in. She has never let anyone see what lay beneath the heavy scarring that her invisible armor has left behind, and it is an even heavier weight and burden to feel so undeniably alone.
Solitude had always been a part of her - she had drawn away from her sister, a twin in birth, and hardly knew her. If it were not for their physical similarities, she would hardly recognize her if she were to come across her. Her mother, she had not seen in many years - not since the last time she had gripped her teat between her ravenous, greedy lips, before growing impatient and bored with the act. Her father - stoic, knowing, yet kind - had been her light in a dark world, and he had gone away with everything she had known in the wake of the reckoning.
Yet as the tireless years pass her by, etching gentle and faint lines into her face and drawing strength from the rich marrow of her bones, she has grown tired - tired of time stealing from her, tired of the wrought iron cage she has built around herself - around her heart. The solitude has since become loneliness, and it has come to consume her, and as Warrick presses the edge of his muzzle against her own to embrace her in memory, she can feel the delicate thread of her demeanor begin to unravel.
The way her name touches his lips is somehow uncertain - an edge to each syllable, as if to show her reverence that in this moment, she does not feel she deserves.
"Don't," she murmurs to him, her breath warm against his cheek as she presses the flattened bridge of her nose against his neck, inhaling his scent and the salty brine that lay across his skin, as it does her own. "I am nothing; no one. My title is only that - a title."
After a long moment, she finally draws away from the warmth of his nape, manipulating her body to face the sea alongside him - the bristling feathers of her wings brushing against the edges of his rib cage; along his flank. Her troubled gaze searches the hazy sea, where the sky seemingly falls away into the ocean - an endless expanse of dull gray and seafoam green. I feel adrift, he says, and for the first time in a long time, a soft chuckle rises from her throat.
"I feel adrift, too, Warrick," she says with a weary sigh, hazel eyes watching the steady waves pounding against the shoreline. "I think we all do, at some point. It is all we can do to find something to tether ourselves to to keep ourselves from being lost at sea."
05-01-2017, 05:07 PM (This post was last modified: 05-01-2017, 05:07 PM by Warrick.)
He is thankful for her familiar presence; not only was she something solid and warm to keep him grounded, but the two share concern for each other. Their conversations were few and mostly said without words themselves – but he could not deny that there was some type of tether that kept them from drifting too far one way or another. Perhaps it is because they have felt same loss and abandonment (though neither would address it), and they find each other just to be sure that there was still someone here to cling to – a familiar face to reassure that you are not truly and utterly alone.
Warrick is honest with her, though not fully. He can tell her how he feels but he cannot tell her why. The reason was already more than he could bear simply in his mind – speaking it into life would seem impossible, unfathomable. His heart churns violently inside of his chest, squirming and twisting; trying to squeeze it’s way back into normalcy to no avail. It was trying and tiring for him, to pretend that all was well and that he was not overcome with anguish and loss.
She presses against him and he breathes deeply, inhaling her scent as if it held the cure. The warmth of her breath and her pale skin brings him comfort, closing his eyes tenderly as he shudders an exhale. A single ear flicks towards her and an eye prys open, a slightly curious look on his auburn face. “Nothing?” he replies, his brow furrowing confusedly. “You may not be just your title, but you certainly are not nothing.” He opens his other eye now, turning his head to look at her quizzically. But he understands. He is no one, too. Those who matter the most have forgotten his name, and therefore, he is no one. Perhaps he should have told her that instead.
When she moves from him, he instinctively leans his body towards her – merely casual shift in weight on his hooves – though he did so because he truly did not enjoy the crisp, salty air that took her place.
His eyes are on the waves now, too. He watches them as if there is something just beneath the surface, though he knows they hold no answers. She laughs and an ear flicks towards her. He always liked that he could make her laugh, even if it was quietly and even if he wasn’t meaning to do it. His gaze peers at her from beneath his dark forelock, a lopsided smirk twitching on the side of his indigo lips. After a few moments, silence grows between them as her words fade into the howl of the ocean’s strong wind.
“Ellyse,” he says her name desperately, quietly, reaching out. “I cannot keep my head above the water for much longer.”
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
There is a soothing comfort in the gentle silence that lingers between them; filling the gaping void that has begun to fester inside of her chest – an embittered wound, raw at the edges – quieted by his presence alone. His warmth is calming, seeping into the numb layer of skin that has become dulled by the frigid air and icy mist of the sea – her feathers, usually finely preened into perfected rows along the hollow bones of her wings, lay limp and dredged in moisture. Her carefree, tousled tresses lay painted against the pale gold of her neck; wavy tendrils wetly pressed along the line of her jaw.
She presses against him then, close enough for her shoulder to meet with his while her broad wing cusps his side, seeking his warmth and longing to be tethered to him. Her eyes are still set towards the east, the pounding, roaring waves reflecting in the hazel gleam of her eye as a breath that had been held for far too long exhaled from her lungs. Even breathing seemed difficult now – a slow, laborious undertaking, one which stirred the painful ache inside of her chest with each rise and fall, and thus a bitter love and hate relationship has formed for the impossibly necessary task.
Soon, her gaze is searching the hardened lines of his face, studying the shadow in the hollow of his cheek, and the slope along the bridge of his nose where his cheekbone and forehead meet. Quietly, her whiskered lips touch along his forehead, brushing the heavy and damp forelock that lay in the way of his eyes. ”I am nothing but titles, Warrick,” she murmurs thoughtfully, her brow furrowing slightly – though a shadow of a smile remains. ”Head of War. A mother. A lover. An enemy. That is all we are, in the end – titles.”
And then, his gaze is lost again to the sea – and she can see the very same tumultuous, troubled glint in his eyes that she knows must be in her own. It is only a single, solitary moment drowning amid a million others that have come and will go, but time suddenly seems to come to a halt. The soft, whispering breeze coming to a halt, and the deafening sea still and motionless – as the flattened edge of her nose presses beneath the crooked ridge of his jaw, nestling her forehead beneath his chin. There, she can hear his heartbeat, hammering erratically, churning painfully inside of the taut confinement of his chest.
The silence has returned, vacant and empty and hollow, as the crooning of seagulls melds in with the sound of the waves making love to the jagged, volcanic rock that outlines the shore. Ellyse, he murmurs, and she draws herself away just enough to meet his eye, to see the ache tucked away within his dark irises. There, a confession is unraveled, and he is pleading – his voice ragged, rife with emotion. I cannot keep my head above water for much longer.
”No,” she murmurs, her brow furrowing again as a gentle nudge is given to his cheek, her eyes settled on the edges of indigo along his dark mouth. ”you are stronger than the tide, Warrick. I know you are. Whatever it is that is hurting you – whatever secrets you carry, you cannot let them be your anchor. We must find anchor in something else, in anything else – anything we can.”
05-06-2017, 08:02 AM (This post was last modified: 05-06-2017, 08:03 AM by Warrick.)
He watches the sea, its waves churning menacingly before them. Dark, brooding waters illuminated by the distant gray of clouds above, frothing as the white tips of each wave spreads against the somber shoreline. The ocean pounds methodically, slamming forcefully against the sand: mimicking the weak thrum of his heart in his ribcage. Even the cerulean blue of his eyes seem a bit darker as he looks out at the murky sea. The overcast, dull sky brings a salty chill on the breeze, no doubt winds of winter blowing in from other parts of Beqanna. His skin twitches compulsively and without thought in a shiver, his body damp from the ocean’s spray. Bits of sand and salt has matted his forelock and mane, hanging heavily against his neck and face.
Warrick cannot help it; the weariness he felt was beginning to manifest itself outwardly on his normally stoic features, ebbing away at the hardened lines of his face to reveal his fragility. He still has no answers, no explanation, no resolve…he thought he could find them (part of him still thinks he can) and join them in their starlit dance high above the heavens. It has been nearly a year and his efforts had nothing to show for it. He was still the same as he was a year ago – he was just as lost, confused, angry and hurt as he had been when they first abandoned him on that cold, empty mountain.
In the midst of this, he suddenly feels the weight of her against him. Without thought he leans into her slightly, her feathers like silk against his auburn skin, even when covered with the salt of the ocean’s air. She is almost curling herself into him, but not in a way that was meek or delicate. It was almost as if she was trying to support him, the way the flat of her nose finds itself beneath his chin and lifts him ever so slightly, encouraging him and promising him. She touches him, comforts him with the soft press of her whiskered lips against his face. He allows it. She gingerly moves his heavy forelock from his eyes and he suddenly feels extremely vulnerable. He nearly shies away from her, to toss his head and cover himself from her gaze. He refrains, unable to move away from the warmth of her against him. He continues to stare out towards the sea, and as her clear and solid voice finds his ears, the blue of his eyes slowly shift to look at her.
An anchor.
He has experienced many things, but grief was still new – unfamiliar. He did not know what to do with it or how to manipulate it into strength. He finds himself relying on her, her knowledge and wisdom to guide him. She understands just as he understands. She sees the invisible wounds, still festering and open, with no real mending in sight. He sees it too.
She cannot hide the dimness of her gaze or the slight quiver in her voice. She is not weak (could she ever be?), but she is vulnerable. The sting of loss will bring you to your knees.
Nevertheless, she is stronger than he is.
Her words were soft, delicately laced with experience and knowing – words that were meant to comfort and soothe. They ring with truth and he knows she is right, but it does not bring him any peace. It will be constant, the unrest that he is feeling: always lingering, never fully healing. He exhales, his breath ragged as it leaves the cobalt of his lips. “I have to start over, don’t I?” he asks her simply, though it wasn’t truly a question. He knew the answer. Time heals all wounds and so does letting go.
His family is lost to him. Finding them is impossible. It is a hopeless endeavor. He needs family, loyalty, and love. He needs those who are real and breathing and warm – not those intertwined in starlight. They would always be in his stars, but never with him; not in the way he needs. “I can barely remember them. Their faces, their voices…” he confesses quietly, almost secretly, the edges of his words clipped and factual. Silence engulfs them, only the sound of the crashing waves filling the void.
“Ellyse,” he says her name again desperately, hastily; attempting to cleave to her with only merely words. She is so resilient, so strong. “I will keep my head above the tide,” he decides, his voice unsure. His gaze flickers to her, pressing his lips against the broad of her nose as she rests reassuringly in the crook of his muscular neck. He murmurs into the pale cream of her skin, “You must keep your head, too.”
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
The weariness is etched into the deep, hollowed lines of his strong features; carved into the muscle and bone that lay beneath his russet and indigo skin. The burden is heavy upon his shoulders, settled between and grating on the tired vertebrae that cling together with a delicate thread of sinewy ligaments – he is wrought with fatigue, leaning against her with a weakness that is far more complex than that of any physical embodiment. She can feel the heat of his scorned, blistering heart through his touch, thrumming roughly against the iron confinement of its cage- thump, thump, thump - but it is not long before she realizes it is her own pounding heart she is listening to.
Though he is worn thin by time and its cruel hand, he is still solid – stoic when lost in thought, and unwavering as the forceful gust urges against their bodies. He is unmoved, even as her lips touch the sharp ridge of his cheek or the place beneath his chin where his blood hums quietly within his veins. She is uncertain as to what she is doing, and perhaps if she were to linger on the thought for too long, she might find herself flustered, or apologetic – but instead, she says nothing, and she presses the logical side of her to the deepest recesses of her mind.
They are but two wayward, aching souls, drifting out to sea, with little but gasping breaths keeping them afloat. The image has burned itself into her mind, and it is not long before Magnus has entered her mind (though she tries to stifle it, she tries to forget) – with his tremulous confession of wondering about how it might feel to meet his end again, to allow the sea to carry him out into its dark depths. Anguish and anger grasps tightly onto her heart, and she is forced to swallow the wretched fury, with burning tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. The irony is not lost on her that his darkest confession is becoming her truest reality.
Gently, she turns her cheek – staring out into the churning, roaring waves yet again, willing the tears that threaten to fall to disappear. With a wavering breath, she quiets her own grief (over what never really was, over what was lost) and suffocates it, as her tired hazel eyes meet with the brewing hurricane of his own.
I have to start over, don’t I?
So much complexity hidden within such a simple question.
A humorless chuckle rises from her throat, reverberating against his skin as she reaches up to brush away his dampened forelock, seeking to meet with his eyes more keenly. His question is deceivingly effortless and uncomplicated, yet she knows that it is never that easy, and he does too. A heavy sigh of a breath she did not realize she had been holding emerges then, as a soft breeze interlaces itself with her pale, tangled tresses, whipping it around her crown and across her cheek.
”Nothing is that simple, Warrick – I think you know that,” she murmurs, her brow furrowing in thought. ”but you cannot let your grief keep you from living. Time is fleeting, and life is too short.” Then, her gaze searches his, tracing the creases of his bright, icy stare as his words fade into the echoing sound of the ocean lapping at the shore. ”They would want you to be happy. And those we love never truly leave us – they are always with us.”
And then, her name is uttered sharply, drawing her attention to him again just as she had begun to watch the dull gray haze meet with the darkening horizon – and instead, she is looking into the eye of the storm, one that is building and growing inside of his mind. I will keep above the tide, he says, and the warmth of a genuine smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, where heavy downward creases lay. As her cheek rests again against his throat, beneath the crook of his neck, she can feel his words vibrating against her ear, and then his own whiskered lips are pressed against the bridge of her nose – and she is watching him, as the hum of his words emerges from the dark indigo of his lips pressed against her skin.
You must keep your head, too.
I will, she thinks. ”I will,” she says, her quivering voice betraying her.
05-10-2017, 05:57 PM (This post was last modified: 05-10-2017, 05:58 PM by Warrick.)
She can see him. She can feel his frailty, wrought with pain and the sheer weight of his grief. He feels safe with her, completely free to un-cage his emotions and place them before her. She does not pry; she is careful and collected, even in the way that her soft, whiskered lips brush against the darkness of his skin, pressing warmth and comfort into each touch. He closes his eyes wearily, allowing her to fiddle with the tangled mess of his forelock, to brush her lips against the hardness of his face. He wants to tell her he’s thankful for her, tell her that the moment they are in was, though fashioned with sadness, a comfort to him and was bringing him out of a place of darkness.
Slowly, he could feel her leading him, encouraging him, promising him.
Her touch leaves his cheek and his eyes open in response, quickly finding her. She is staring out into the open ocean, her eyes darkened by the dismal and grey shoreline (or was it something else?). His brow furrows with concern, reaching out to comfort in the same way she had done for him; cobalt lips carefully trace her jawbone – hesitant and unsure, but purposeful. He lingers where her cheek meets her neck, the shudder of her exhaling breath reverberating throughout her body. He breathes quietly into her golden skin, listening to the soft sound of the feathers of her pale wings rustle in the ocean’s breeze. He knew all too well the strength it takes to cast grievous thoughts aside and it pained him to see her do the same.
She laughs. He can feel it as it rises to the surface. He smiles gently into her skin, pulling his head back momentarily to meet her gaze as she brushes aside his damp forelock. They would want him to be happy. He smiles as he thinks about this, and decides that Orani and Beyah would have very much liked Ellyse. Despite the slight smirk on his lips, he falters and it fades, brows coming together to shade his brilliant blue gaze. He almost wants to argue, disprove her theory that they are always with them. They left me here to live together amongst the stars. They chose not to be with me, he doesn’t tell her. It was too much, too soon. She would understand, he knew. She would know. She could help him.
He snorts, his gaze falling downcast as he turns away from her to stare at the frothing waters of the tide beneath them, dampening his legs even more as the tide begins to come in.
Her voice quivers, unsure and unconvincing as she answers him. No, he thinks in his mind, concern once again finding the dark lines of his face. Do not doubt. They are still woven together, two beings drawn together by their loss and grief. “You are a force to be reckoned with,” he murmurs quietly as he presses his muzzle against her once again, a bit of a sparkle in the blue of his eyes and a tiny smile twitching at the edges of his lips. He pauses for a moment, the sounds of the ocean filling the empty space, as the two of them stand together, unmoving.
“They are always with you,” he whispers into her skin, words meant only for her...and perhaps for Magnus, wherever he may be.
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
Perhaps it is that she can see him –
She can see the darkness etched within the creased lines that delicately cradle his brooding gaze; she can see the weariness carved into the iron grip of his jaw bone, and the fatigue settled between his rigid shoulder blades.
She can see the very edges of him, broken and jagged, frayed at the ends –
Yet, there is nothing broken about him at all – his warm breath across her cheek, with unspoken words pressed against the pallid gleam of her dampened skin, and his eyes, filled with a storm of emotion; a tempest of longing she herself knew all too well. He is fragile, but not broken.
Her whiskered lips press again to his jaw, tasting the salty brine of the sea again on his skin, and for a long moment, she lingers there – feeling his pulse hot and rhythmic beneath its dark amber covering. She can very nearly feel his heart beating in time with her own. There is an undeniable draw to him, for he is everything that she is not, and everything that she will never be. Stoic, yet gentle – kindness, embedded into the very marrow of his bones, and an insufferable craving she has to be nearer to such light in an otherwise dark and dismal existence has bloomed within the pit of her rolling belly.
As her hazel gaze searches the hazy horizon and its dark, blossoming clouds, a deep rumble reverberates through the wet, densely packed sand, crawling up along her long, languid limbs and reaching her core. Thunder, and with it, the dreary sky would soon be alight with electricity – being so near to the water was foolish, and yet the nerves lining the hollow bones of her wings tingle with anticipation and enthrallment. What was life without risk, after all?
And then his lips are upon her, along the crevice where her rounded cheek meets with the slender length of her neck, and a shiver courses through her taut muscles and down along her rigid spine – and guilt is suddenly growing from a gentle pang to a painful clench, seizing her pounding heart and reminding her too well of the dangerous line laying before her. She had deliberately stepped over the unseen boundary, drawing him nearer to her, comforting him in the dark and grim daylight –
And yet, there is something decidedly intimate about the way his lips touch her cheek, his breath hot and sweet across her skin. As an intimacy she had not felt in so long, it soothed a wildness inside of her, while stirring something altogether monstrous looming in the shadows of her broken heart.
Friendship? she wonders to herself, knowing very little about the social construct (the only true companion she had ever had had quickly become her lover) but knowing deep down she was crossing the line. But there is something about the way his soft murmuring of words along her cheek touches something deep within her, touches something she had thought was long gone and dead, that urges her away from his gentle touch.
He deserved better; he needed more – he needed her strength, her resolve, her trust and respect.
It was selfish of her to seek comfort in him, when he was so vulnerable –
You are a force to be reckoned with, he says, and she cannot conceal a half-amused snort.
”Oh, you have no idea, Warrick,” and then, the guilt is tucked away within the shadow of an otherwise impish gleam in her bright eyes. ”You wouldn’t want to get on my bad side. Though, admittedly, I cannot see how you could – you’re perfect,” she muses with a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
And as his lips press against her muzzle once more, he murmurs to her, and a frigidity slowly envelopes her heart, filling in the void that had become a gaping wound in the wake of Magnus’ absence with ice.
”It is a pleasant thought, but a lie – a lie I cannot tell myself.” The humor gone, and in its place, a grimace – a deep frown in place of the roguish smile she had worn mere moments before. ”Magnus was - is a good man – a good friend, a better father – but I would be foolish to think he loved me, even for a minute.” Her eyes do not meet his – the truth is too painful, and so she chooses instead to lose herself in the rumbling discontent of the sea. ”Not the way that I loved him.”
A sigh, weary and worn, and then, ”Whatever it is that is weighing you down, Warrick ..” a breathless pause, the depth of her deep, gold-flecked hazel eyes searching the endless sea of his own, fluttering between each eye to see beyond the façade concealing its darkness. ”do not let it consume you, as it did him. Time stops for no one – do not let it get in the way of your happiness.”
05-16-2017, 08:28 PM (This post was last modified: 05-16-2017, 08:28 PM by Warrick.)
He doesn’t want to draw away from her. He wants to push in close, search every inch to find the place in her soul that held her pain and simply pluck it from her. He would take it on, carry it on his back until it broke, until his knees buckled and cracked. He must protect her; he must bring her safely to wherever she needed to be, though he did not know the way. He was not able to protect them, but he could do that with Ellyse. He could be there for her. He could care for her. He could be her friend. Friend? Warrick’s mind turns in thought. Was friendship what he was offering her? He couldn’t tell; his mind could not slow down nor could it linger. Lingering meant thinking, and he didn’t want to think. He only wanted to deeply breathe the salty air around him, tangled with the smell of damp seaweed and the soft, sweet perfume of Ellyse.
He isn’t sure of what he’s feeling at the moment. Affection? It was familiar to him, instinctual. Yet, this was very different than the affection he felt when it came to his sister and mother. He felt not in control, spontaneous, warm. The feeling fueled him, his eyes sparkling gently as the darkness from the incoming storm looms ominously before them. He hasn’t even noticed the storm, growing ever closer, outstretching with a dark, gloomy hand towards the shoreline. He felt the distant rumble of thunder as it shook the ground with a grumble, but he mistook it for the roll of his heart, throbbing and aching for complacency and a sense of belonging. Much like the storm, he reaches out to Ellyse as it reaches the shoreline, navy lips brushing carefully against the salt of her skin with warm, hesitant breaths: unsure, yet full of longing and mildly innocent.
Suddenly, the joke is over. There is tenseness between them and it is palpable. He frowns, pulling away from her with a unintentional shift in his weight, refusing to take a full step away from her. He does not speak, for he knew this was not his time to reply. He was merely meant to listen.
The growling of the storm beyond them fills in the silences as she speaks, like an orchestra accompaniment. Warrick’s eyes grow sad as he listens, knowing that he will not be able to bring her what she needs. He desperately wishes to reach out to her again, but refrains in fear that she will run from him. He wishes he could rewind to just a few moments before, where they stood tethered to each other mentally and emotionally. But he continues to remain motionless, save for the black of his mane and forelock falling across his sorrowful stare.
Her words sting him as it rings with truth and he responds with a slight narrowing of his large, gloomy eyes. He wants to say her name again; he wants to call to her. He feels her slipping from him and he knows he cannot catch her and if he were even able to, she would not allow him to do so. He feels her name rising onto his tongue, sitting there in the cavity of his mouth, buzzing. He swallows it.
“I cannot keep looking to the stars,” he finally says, his voice as deep and grumbling as the rolling storm that is coming closer. “I need to focus on what’s right in front of me. I have a home. Friends.”
Warrick does not move towards her. He does not let the softness of his lips trace her golden skin, or press his body against her. He merely continues to stare into her golden brown gaze as he quietly and feebly adds: “I have you.”
