Ellyse

 The hours eventually faded into days, which inevitably seeped into months. As autumn had become cold and still with winter’s grasp, soon winter fell at the hand of spring, warm and tender as its tepid heat finally penetrated the darkness that had long ago settled into the deepest crooks and bends of the forest. And when a single ray of sunlight finally reaches the plane of her cheek (where too many tears had been shed and dried, though her pallid complexion hid the salty stains from the naked eye), she is roused from her proverbial slumber, blinking away the haze that had fallen over her.

   With a low, rumbling sigh, she draws herself away from the solitude she had permitted to take presence in her very bones – enough time had gone by, she decided, and enough time had been wasted. Though her heart still ached for what could not be, the thought of Magnus no longer caused her anguish (he had been so much to her; meant so much to her - he always would) - and the thought of Warrick's lips across her cheek no longer stirred guilt (but perhaps something more dangerous, stirring within the pit of her belly, even now). Her mind had not been well when she found solace in the silence and isolation; the once fortified threads that held her together had become weak, worn and threadbare – but time had its way of mending all things.

   Except, perhaps, her deeply bruised ego.

   No longer did she serve beneath Magnus, or even Lucrezia – rather, her title had little meaning now, working instead beneath a heavily scarred, wartorn behemoth wrought with fire and some deeply-hidden anguish lurking beneath an otherwise stoic surface. Her title was meaningless now, and she was frustrated, feeling the tender roots she had so carefully preened and nurtured torn apart from the volcanic, rich soil of what she had come to know as her own. Too much change, she thought to herself, growing weary of the constant shifting of power – and something had long since settled into the marrow of her bones, leaving her uneasy, and anxious about who and what had taken the helm.

   Her mind drifted often to that day, but not because of the falling of one Queen and the rise of a King, but rather, because of the distant, terse look in eyes that had once looked upon her warmly. Because of the tension, and ire gently laced with each carefully spoken, agitated syllable. She had ignored him, looking briefly to him before allowing her mind to drift away, deliberately willing her attention elsewhere – he deserved so much more than the broken, fragmented pieces that had been left behind in the wake of heartbreak, even on a platonic level.

   Still, she pined for him – she was not sure if it had been the brief, fleeting touch of his lips, or simply a longing for familiarity, for friendship, but she often wondered what would have happened if she had stayed - what would have happened if she had simply spoken to him as an equal; if she had sought more from him and from his quiet, somber past? What would have happened if she had never left his side? Though a part of her mind ached to know, she knew, deep inside, nothing good would have ever come of it.

   She had been a broken thing, shattered somewhere deep inside, and her mind had been unclear – hazy with melancholy, dejected thoughts – wholly unhealthy. You deserve so much more, she had told him, and she meant every word of it. She could only hope that somehow, some way, he would come to understand her meaning, but if his cold shoulder were any indication, he hadn’t understood at all.

   Alas, it is as the warm summer sun sets behind the distant, hazy horizon that she emerges from the embrace of the thicket, as her broad, pale wings extend to each side to savor the light breeze of evenfall touch her finely preened feathers. Enough, she had told herself, you cannot hide forever, and so her slender, yet heavily muscled legs carry her to the east – to where the distant shadow of a rumbling volcano bathes beneath the waning light of day, to home.

   But tucked away beneath the darkness of a shapely willow, with its tendrils of draping branches swaying to and fro across the slope of his spine, he remains – his dark eyes settled elsewhere, searching far beyond where the boundaries of Tephra lie. Her own gold-flecked gaze watches carefully as her pace quickens to him, her heart pounding vigorously within its cage, thumping rhythmically inside of her chest. His features, handsome, solid, and as deep as the midnight blue of the night sky, draw her near with the familiar comfort of his presence – but she hesitates, her cheek slightly tilted with her pale tresses covering one eye, before stretching out the slender length of her neck towards him.

   Wanting. 

   ”Warrick,” she murmurs, uncertain of what to say – or how to say it. 

   I’m sorry, she doesn’t say, not yet, though she wants to.

when all your promises are gone, I'm the only one.

Ellyse

 He is an enigma – with mystery carefully carved into the hollow of his cheek, in the shadow of his cobalt stained mouth, in the deep abyss of his forlorn gaze, cast towards the darkened sky and its plethora of glimmering constellations and planetary matter. The muscles lining the hardened bone of his stiffened shoulder and spine are taut and wrought with tension, yet he is far from rigid – there is a slackened looseness in his posture; defeated and worn down by something burning and festering beneath the stillness of his skin.

  Beneath the softened curve of her own breast, her heart is hammering raggedly against the confinement of her chest, aching to be let out, longing to be set free – but she quiets it in its yearning, hushes it in its pining. The air is thick with the heat of a waning summer, and the gentle breeze that weaves its way through her wavy, carefree tresses is hardly a reprieve from its discomfort, yet it is nothing like the stifling humidity of the volcanic island she had come to know as her own. More than the temperature, the air is heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of confession and secrecy, emotions boiling and burning within each of them, and the soothing caress of evenfall cannot quell the anguish building inside of her.

  He is entirely too still, unflinchingly searching the starlit heavens above despite the warmth of her breath so near to his neck, and it stirs a wretchedness somewhere in the depths of her soul that she had always tried so tirelessly to drown out.

  She is hurt, and the expanse of her chest cavity is suddenly filled with dread, with disappointment, rising into her throat like the acrid acidity of bile. Quietly, she scolds herself – chastises herself, knowing she has no entitlement to his affection, or even his acknowledgement – not after leaving him alone beneath the haze of an oncoming storm.

  Little did he realize the intensity of the storm raging inside of her, then.

  When her voice finally does rise above the swell of her throat, it is feeble, uncertain – and then he exhales, his eyes meet with her own, and she herself can feel the tension dissolve from her, piece by piece, but doubt still clutches to her weary heart and mind. The silence is heavy; so much heavier than the weight of their secrets and she is beside herself with ambiguity.

  Though she had hidden herself away to mend her own broken heart, and to bring process and grieve all that she had lost (companionship, affection, security), she had seemingly caused irreparable damage to an already bruised and battered soul, clinging precariously to a lifeline – holding on tightly to an anchor; barely tethered to anything at all.

  She is not foolish enough to think that she can fix him – it is a fatal flaw of hers, to assume otherwise, to undertake such a vast and wholly impossible thing – but more than that, she craves his companionship, hungers for the familiarity of his voice, and of his face. She cannot repair the frayed and split heartstrings that barely hold his ragged, broken heart together, but she can be a pillar of unwavering support – a beacon of light, in an otherwise hazy, hopeless darkness.

  We must keep our heads above the tide,” he says, and she is speechless.

  He touches her cheek, gently, before pulling away, but she does not let him withdraw into himself, following the warmth of his touch with the warmth of her lips, pressed against his cheek and then trailing up along the firm line of his jaw, kissing the crease where it comes together with the thick, muscled length of his neck. Her breath is warm against his skin, and she can almost feel him trembling against her, tired and weary and broken. She breathes a quiet apology against his skin, turning her cheek to slide it across the dark, matted tendrils of hair that lay across his neck, before draping her own neck over his, embracing him tightly to her as she maneuvers herself to stand before him.

  The musk of sulfur and the salty brine of the sea lingers still upon his skin, and she can almost taste the volcanic island across his shoulder. ”I’m so sorry, Warrick,” she murmurs, her own heavy lashes closing over the pale gold of her eyes. Her wings lay tucked tightly against her side, brushing lightly against his skin. ”I never meant to hurt you – and it never meant goodbye.”

when all your promises are gone, I'm the only one.

Ellyse

  He is a harbor from the tempestuous fury of a wild and reckless hurricane, but he is faltering, moving with each forceful, churning swell of the sea of emotion enveloping him – and she is powerless to keep him from drowning. Deep within, her heart aches – and where it had begun to mend, the wound now lay flayed open, oozing and seeping the sordid misery she had swallowed down like bitter, acrid bile – but it is hot, leaving her feverish and trembling in its wake.

  She had left him at a hazy shoreline, with a frothing sea lapping at the indigo of his legs, beneath the warmth of a setting sun – but she had left him seemingly more broken than he had been before, and the weight of guilt and turmoil are heavy on her mind, stirring emotion she had long since buried somewhere in the darkest recesses of her mind to the surface.

  Even as she presses the warmth of her body to him – to comfort him, to connect with him – he is terse, wrought with tension and with a frigidity she had never felt from him before, and when he carefully carves out distance and space in between them, she is dejected. A flicker of sorrow lingers within the golden flecks of her eyes as she quietly traces the broad line of his jaw, the creases and lines that are deeply etched beside each of his soulful, deeply sorrowful eyes, but soon the façade of indifference filters through her blood, which lay cold and frigid within her surging veins. Her teeth clench, causing the fine line of muscle within her jaw to tense abruptly, as her cheek is turned, watchful of the waning light upon the horizon but with her mind a million miles away.

  His own gaze – bright, vivid and reminding her of the crystalline waters of the roaring, winding river – now searches for her own, but she will not – she cannot give it to him. Inside of her, she is rife with emotion. Humiliated by his rejection, as imperceptible as it had seemed – to her, it felt like a glowing flicker of light had been quashed by the coldness of his shoulder, by the flinching movement of the tension rolling through his coiled, tightly bound muscle.

 She is so often carefully composed, with indifference gracing the delicate, feminine features of her curving, gently aging face, but she has grown weary of the depths of loneliness she had too easily fallen into, and the façade is gone. Though he has drawn away from her physically to further bore into her with his own steady gaze, with his rigid, firm tone, to somehow give her comfort and to reassure her that no apology is necessary, it only feels like the scalding hot burn of rejection and she is not listening.

 She does not see his features soften; she does not see the flicker of light hidden somewhere within the darkness of his irises – she can only feel the distance growing deeper, and further in between them, and while she has never shied away from anything in her life, she yearned for the ground beneath her to tear apart and swallow her whole.

  ”Then why are you so angry with me? What do you want from me, Warrick?” and her voice breaks then, a crackling fissure, vulnerable, raw and rife with emotion welling up inside of her. ”You know why I left,” her voice is lower now – dangerously low, and trembling. ”I did not want how I was feeling – how I felt – to be projected onto you.”

  And then, an echo of her parting words, ”You deserve so much more than that – and this? I don’t deserve this,” and quieter, ”you are all I have left, Warrick .. please. Please don’t.”

when all your promises are gone, I'm the only one.

Ellyse

  The air is thick and heavy with tension, and she, once so self-assured and unwavering, felt like a dry and brittle leaf, fluttering feebly and clutching precariously to a dead and dying branch – and as the tumultuous, tempestuous storm stirs and wages war on his heart and on his mind, she is powerless. Her own heart is pounding, aching – its steady thrumming echoing in her own mind, and she can hardly hear herself think. She had never meant for any of it to happen; she had never anticipated her once carefully guarded heart to break so easily.

  She had never expected to fall so deeply for someone so unattainable, for someone so absent – there was no doubt in her mind that it had been an unrequited love (he loved her, but not in the way that she had loved him), but she had been such a fool to think that she had known him at all – that she had loved anything more than the fragmented, broken man she ached to soothe, that she longed to mend the wounds of. It was a fatal flaw of her own: an innate, undeniable desire to make what is broken whole again. Unattainable. Unobtainable.

  Still, the thought of her son, of her daughters is more than enough to remind her of why she had loved him so – he had been a wonderful father. A doting, steady presence. A pillar of strength, a symbol of time and of endurance. A companion, a friend - her first, her only. He had been (would always be) so much to her, but it was of her own doing that she had permitted her heart to fall for a war-torn, broken thing like him – she had been foolish – not in loving him, but in thinking she knew anything about him at all.

  It had taken time. Time to see that she had no one to blame but herself for the pieces her broken heart had been left in.

  Time to see that life did not simply cease to be because of heartbreak. Time to understand, to know that love was not weakness – love was anything but weakness.

  But time had cost her, and as the warmth of her breath brushes across his terse, tense cheek of indigo and rust, and as he murmurs her voice, pleading and letting the façade of indifference and understanding fall away, his bright, cerulean gaze meets with her own – and she is reminded of the price.

  When he reaches to her, she does not shy away, elongating her own neck to cover the distance – it still felt like a thousand miles lay between them, but his touch is warm, comforting, and the irrational ache lingering in her chest is soothed, if only for a moment. He had not been angry with her, she can see that now – she was nothing if not impulsive; he deserved to be listened to. I won’t, he promises, and her gaze is cast downward to the dry, dust-laden ground beneath. When his reaches for her cheek, warm and gentle, there is a single, solitary tear staining the golden sheen of her skin, salty and wet.

  Quietly, the gold-flecked hazel of her eyes search the broad plane of his handsome features, of the subtle fading from indigo to rust (it reminds her of the glowing, molten rock pouring into the tumultuous, churning sea – it reminds her of home), of the gentle slope of his forehead and the tousled tresses that lay across one eye. I cannot give that to you, he murmurs, and her heart clenches – but somewhere, deep within, she already knew that.

  I am not him, he breathes, and then –
  I am not Magnus.

  The ridge of her brow is furrowed then, uncertainty flickering in her gaze, and breathlessly, she presses her cheek against his own, before pushing closer to him, her ear pressed tightly against the crook of his neck where his pulse thrums rhythmically with every beat of his heart. Quietly, with her cheeks darkened to a deep, burnt sienna from the fallen tears, her eyes seek out his own, with nothing but the warmth of their breath lingering between them.

  ”I know you aren’t him, Warrick,” she murmurs softly, unwilling to shy away from his gaze now, following wherever they may go, as the soft starlight and rising moon bathes them in its splendor. ”I know you aren't Magnus. That is why I left – I did not want to tether whatever emotion I was feeling with his absence to you. I am not asking for you to love me,” her voice is nothing more than a whisper now. She could never ask him to love her. She would never ask it of anyone; she was certain now that no one could.

  ”I am asking for you to be my friend. I want –“ a sharp intake of breath; the confession is difficult and she is vulnerable – moreso than she had ever been. ”I need you in my life. I need your friendship. That is all I ask.”

when all your promises are gone, I'm the only one.

Ellyse

  He was different.

  With any other, she might not have the patience, nor the wherewithal to withstand the ache in his chest, the melancholy glimmer in his eyes – the trembling of his tight and rigid muscle, unbending and unyielding even beneath the warmth of her touch. Yet with him, she is quiet, gentle – as much as she is able while in possession of a short fuse, a hot temper and a sharp wit – but alas, it is almost impossible for her to feel any ire with him (small bursts of frustration aside).

  Though he is a fragile and broken thing, he does not attempt to sheath it in a cloak of strength, nor does he feign indifference to his own anguish and grief – and it coaxes out a deep, primal instinct to protect him. Even as his dark mouth presses against the gold of her cheek, her mind is elsewhere (though only for a moment – the way his lips touch the crease where her neck and her jaw meet nearly causes her knees to buckle), wondering to what depth his heartache is felt.

  She does not press him, not now – the moonlight is soft and gentle, bathing their skin beneath a glimmering, celestial sky, and his breath is warm against her cheek, and his presence is enough. Where doubt and uncertainty had lingered moments ago, now lay a longing deeper than she had felt in so long – a longing for his comfort, for the solace of his company, and she does not shy away from it.

  Gently, she presses her mouth to his jaw line (the faintest semblance of a kiss) before the long bridge of her nose tucks itself beneath the crook of his jaw, lifting his head up towards the dark, but glittering sky above. Quietly, her own gaze searches the constellations with him, while idly her teeth tug and pull at a haphazard knot entangled with his tousled tresses. Her tears are dried with the tepid warmth of evenfall, or caught by the stray threads of his mane – where they hang precariously before dribbling off onto the dry soil below.

  Her heart is warm, and whole beside him – she had not felt it in so long, and it is an emotion that is almost difficult to swallow. She can feel the thrumming of his pulse just below her eyes, and for a moment, her breath is held still within the broad expanse of her longs – just listening. His breathing is still ragged, and not mellow like her own, but she touches another soft, feather-light kiss to his throat, knowing all too well that she shouldn’t.

  She shouldn’t.

  I’m not asking you to love me, and she wouldn’t.

  I need you, too, he softly says, and that is enough for her.

  Beneath a starlit sky, they stand - each of their breathing slowly leveling into a soothing rhythm, and their heartbeats beating in time.

  You are my anchor, and he is hers, with you I will not become lost at sea.

  And neither will she.

when all your promises are gone, I'm the only one.