She arrives like a ghost in a garden of dead limbs. Her body is something else; tainted, tarnished, unlike what she once was. She isn’t effortless anymore, she needs to make herself pretty. She is a mess of scars and a bundle of skin and bones all pressed together. God took what he had leftover from the important ones and molded it all together to make her, at age seven, and here she is; the very imperfect, unloved Smolder.
And you thought she had left for good.
Her blue eyes are heavy as she watches him blend into the scenery. She doesn’t smell her daughter, and a fire of anger burns in her throat before she reminds herself, “dear, you gave her away. Who is to blame.”
He is a failure of a father, just like you are a failure of a living being.
She walks with a dull stride and arrives at his shoulder like a silent hawk. Her breath exhales over his shoulder like so long ago. Once upon a time, he would have shivered in delight at the elegant touch of her love. And now? She imagines him shrinking in agony and disgust. He hated her, but she couldn’t hate him. What had she done to a perfect family? What had she done to him.
“Look at me,” her voice is soft and almost angelic, a dainty tone. She doesn’t know why she came here first, maybe out of false hope or because bad habits die hard. He was her first instinct upon entering Beqanna, the first face that popped into long term memory—the first real drive to do something. He wouldn’t understand, he hates her—but she will always love him.
Despite it all, despite everything, he was her only heart.
“I don’t see her,” she says with a sigh, a sad one. Not because Warship had failed—even if he had, Smolder couldn’t point fingers—but because she wished she could see her only daughter now. Her China Doll, as she so vividly dreamt about her. A perfect porcelain pony, free of bruises and tarnishes like her parents. A free spirit, a loveable kid. Oh how wrong she was about her daughter, how wrong she was about her dream.
The porcelain pony wasn’t Smother, but instead herself in a different light. Smolder was the perfect pony, if only she could see that.
“Don’t wreck this, please,” her desperation is vivid, her fear real. Warship might hate her but she wants to imagine him still liking her, even the faintest bit. “Pretend that you like me, pretend that you care. Pretend you missed me,” her voice is cracking on heavy words like pretend and missed—the very thought of him tearing her down like she knew she deserved was nearly unbearable.
Warship didn’t pretend though, and who was she to ask him to be.
i'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell
He feels her before he sees her, or even smells her. She is like a mist moving along with the breeze, and immediately he knows she is here, here in his kingdom. He feels his breath catch in his throat, feels his ribs squeezing painfully on his lungs and heart. Smolder, and only her, could illicit this response from him.
The smell of lilac bleeds through the mist, and though he’d like nothing more than to blow the scent from his nostrils…he drinks deeply of it, like a drunk dragging on their last bottle of wine. But there is something beneath that scent, bitter like fever sweat. He closes his eyes as she sidles up along his muscular shoulder, half afraid to look at her for fear of what he would see there. Whatever was wrong with her, whatever was responsible for that sickening scent on her skin, it was his fault. His fault. He remembers vividly their last meeting, and though he wishes he could forget it, it plays like a loop in his brain. Hateful words spit like bullets, flashing eyes and pinned ears. His fault. But she is here now, alive somehow though certainly broken. “Smolder…” he chokes, his voice breaking like glass. He shivers as her warm breath meets his damp skin, and its all he can do not to lean into the feeling. No, he tells himself, that time is gone. Instead he stands tall and rock-like, staring into the forest as hard as he knows how.
But he knows he can’t hold this façade for long, not with her pleading so desperately at his side. She is a woman wanting, and he’s never been one to deny her. With a sigh he turns his head and his eyes meet hers, searching them desperately for something that was once so bright there. She is still the same Smolder- big doe eyes colored blue, rosey gray fur clinging to those all-too familiar slopes and angles. Those angles are sharper now though, and it pains him to see. Her coat is dull, as are her eyes, and in that moment he hates the very ground he walks on. His fault.
“Shes gone.” he says flatly, turning back towards the forest and staring into its depths. He’s trying hard to stay concrete, but she’s making it difficult. Yes, their daughter was gone who knows where. She’d left him with out so much as a backwards glance in much the same fashion her mother had. They were certainly mother and daughter, for both knew how to push his buttons to the utmost. Warship hoped every day that she was well, but he knew better than to go searching for her. He had nothing to say anyways, even if he did manage to find her. She was set in her ways, and he in his. They were two parts of the same half, whether they liked to admit it or not. Smolder speaks again, bringing him from his bitter memories, and he’s shocked at what he hears in her voice. She’d never been one to beg but beg she does, pleading something from him he’s unsure he should give. He couldn’t, wouldn’t put himself through this again. He couldn’t, wouldn’t put her through this again. What is they were fire and gasoline, never meant to be? But the desperation in her voice is very real, and it pains him to hear. Finally he turns back to her, his lips finding the crest of her neck. He chews lightly at her ratty mane, tasting lilac and smoke. His lips find her throat and he kisses her there, knowing how foolish this is but in the moment not giving a damn. “I don’t have to pretend, Smolder. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed every last minute with you…” he says heavily, closing his eyes and simply feeling her. She was here, now, and maybe just maybe…they could make up for lost time.
warship 
09-15-2015, 11:22 PM
(This post was last modified: 09-15-2015, 11:26 PM by Smolder.)
He is so reserved. Withdrawn from my presence, scared of my scent, hesitant of my touch. He greets me like a commoner come to light; a mare whom he saw once upon a time in the meadow. A mare he had no attachment to, no love for. I deserve this. I have earned this greeting.
Love me.
Feel me.
He is the brick wall I came to love so long ago. His sturdy demeanor and headstrong expression still well-worn and fashioned on his dark face. God built him with the head set of building a warrior. A stead that will only grow more beautiful with tarnishes and scars. He is so much like a family heirloom; a story within every cut, the beauty within the memories and not the perfections.
He says my name and I hold on to his show of compassion: the slight catch in his throat. I close my eyes and grasp onto this moment, this half second, for as long as I possibly can. I know I won’t get much, I don’t deserve what I am receiving now.
Therefore, I will treasure even the slightest form of fondness.
For a second, he is only mine. Mine.
The moment dissolves into a distant memory and I feel his body harden in my wake once more. I inch closer to close the space, to reach desperately for that man one more time. Animosity glows of his coat.
He faces me, and I return his glance until I watch the soft form of pity build in his eyes. I turn away, angered. I want to be flawless; perfect. Untainted and beautiful like I once was. I wish him not to see me like this, I wish he could go blind for just a few seconds. Long enough for me to dissolve in his presence but not long enough I turn to a pumpkin at midnight.
I have proven how weak I am.
“Gone?” Is all I manage to say with a hesitant tone; why am I surprised? She was given the heart of a wanderer and the mind of a mule. Our genetics were never meant to pan out, much like Warship and I were never meant to blossom. He being the fuel to my fire, and I persisting to burn him dry. I drank him for all he had, like a drunkard in a cheap bar. I left him, a bottle of emptiness and uselessness on the dirty bar top. I took him for all he had.
Who am I to return?
I won’t press our daughter, won’t open that door. His presence is a gift, a privilege.
I will not spook the deer.
He is a broken light in a damp cabin. His dark, cold anger suffocating me and then suddenly, his warm familiar light reassuring my position. Here he is again, this flicker of light, a swinging flaky lantern that will no doubt burn out too soon. I bathe in his light, I feel his mouth ripple small circles along my mane and throat. Soft warm breath coaxes over my coat like coffee steam against lips. I feel him. I touch him.
“I won’t steal your fuel, Warship.” I say, my voice soft and faint, “I promise to only help you burn brighter.”
i'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell
He wants to believe all of this is true. He wants to believe that this, this love or whatever they shared was real. He wants to believe it, but he shouldn’t.
He should turn now and run into the forest, not giving her so much as a backwards glance. It would be the best for both of them. But he’s too much of a coward to do it, just like he’s too proud to give her that advantage. But it would surely be for the best. They were toxic for one another and in the next breath making perfect sense. A princess and a General, such a thing only works in the fairy tales. They didn’t live in a fairy tale though. He couldn’t whisk her away from her tower in the sky. He was no knight, and his armor had more dings and dents than shine.
But still he stayed. Staring at her, his eyes searching hers. Searching for anything, some reassurance that she was ok, that they were ok. Of course they weren’t ok and nor had they ever been, but he owed it to himself to look anyways. He was shocked at what he found there, and no words he knew could describe it. But he couldn’t look away. “Yes, gone. I’ve no idea where.” he said softly. As much as he would like to change things between Smother and himself, it was impossible. Stagnant water under the bridge.
A sigh slipped between his lips, and he lowered his head. This was moving impossibly fast again, just like it always did between them. There was no slow lane, not when it came to the two of them. Hardening his jaw he stepped to the side, looking down at her and trying hard to hold his resolve. “Smolder…” he started, building the walls up as he spoke. “How can this work? Look at what happened the last time…we’re wonderful and impossible at the same time. How do we know which one we’re more of?” he asked, his voice strong despite the cracking in his chest. He wanted to believe it, he really did…but the skeptic in him told him to run fast and far.
warship
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