"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'm the only one who will walk across a fire for you.
it's only fear that makes you run, the demons that you're hiding from.
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.
The cool caress of night holds tight, squeezing him gently as it roams the entire meadow. He stands stoically, his chin pointed upwards to the clear night sky, his cerulean eyes roving the deep, indigo depths. The long, swaying branches of the willow brush gently against his skin, reminding him that he is still on earth and not soaring through the galaxies. It had been a long time since he had found the need to search the heavens, for most of his nights were spent back in Tephra, where the tropical foliage scrubs out the sight of the sky or the dark, wet caves kept him from seeing the starry atmosphere. Here in the meadow, though, the wide-open expanse towers over him like an inky cloak, yawning and stretching magnificently before him – reminding him of loved ones who are lost and how utterly alone he truly is.
The auburn lines of his face illuminate in the starlight, the weariness that hides there now alight in the silver of night. He is lost in the expanse that gapes before him, the twinkling reflection of stars in the blue of his eyes.
So much had happened, yet at the same time, he feels as if the past year has left him with nothing. He is empty again, sadness billowing within his chest like smoke, choking in his throat. He is still at a loss when it came to his family, still feeling displaced and broken beneath the stars that they accompany. The shift in leadership leaves him to adjust once again to a new rule, attempting to prove himself to his new King but knowing that he could not measure up to the others that stand so loyally by the black stallion’s side. Tang’s absence grows less sweet, the memory of her now causing pain as he begins to realize that she may not return to him in the cooler months.
Then there was Ellyse.
He remembers their conversation on the grey and brazen shoreline of Tephra, though maybe he does not remember it the way he should. Maybe he decided to interpret it differently so that she left him with a string of hope, not a chasm of doubt. He had been foolish, he knows, and he still is. Seeing her had created such a leap of courage within him, but now he feels small and uncertain, questioning everything that he thought he had been accomplishing.
She finds him, like he know she will. He would not have sought her out; his pride would not let him.
The movement of her pale, golden body is like a whisper upon the ground, quiet and somber in her approach. His eyes do not leave the skies, they continue searching – for what, he did not know. He can feel her golden stare on him, soft and aching as it roves his body, waiting for him to move, to respond, to do something – but he does not. She says his name, so coaxingly and so beautiful, and he cannot help but exhale with a staggering breath that he had been holding. Dark lids close over the brilliant blue of his eyes, brow furrowing as he continues to tilt his head upwards, feeling the gentle starlight on his skin.
He has so many questions for her: Where have you been? Are you all right? Have you found what you were looking for? What have I done?
None of them will find his tongue, and they will remain lodged in his throat along with his fear and doubt; frightened that words will scare her away once again. The silence that grows between them is palpable, thick and anxious, as the night grows dimmer. Finally, he brings his chin towards his chest, his eyes still closed as he inhales deeply.
He was sinking, sinking, sinking.
“We must keep our heads above the tide, Ellyse.”
His voice is rippling and deep and true, almost rough with the thickness of the summer air around them. A moment passes and his eyes open slowly, the dark lids revealing the deepest blue irises that meet her gold-flecked gaze without hesitation. She is outstretched, reaching for him with a whirlwind of uncertainty in her eyes. To relieve her, and himself, he brings the cobalt of his muzzle to her own, brushing her cheek gently and briefly, a touch so fleeting yet long awaited, his head feels heavy when he brings his muzzle back to himself.
I'm the only one who will walk across a fire for you.
it's only fear that makes you run, the demons that you're hiding from.
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.
She was his anchor (is she still?) and her absence had caused him to drift, lost within a tumultuous rampage that felt so much like drowning. The air was too thin, not enough oxygen could fill his lungs to keep him steady, and little by little, he felt himself sinking lower and lower, succumbing to the threat of darkness that has always attempted to consume him. The timing had been awful; her disappearance (truly, was it a disappearance if she had told him she was leaving?) fell into pace with Tang’s departure, and all of Tephra had fallen deathly quiet. The light that keeps him from slipping had put itself out, leaving him to sort through his doubts and fears within the dark and chilly depths of Tephra’s smoke-filled caves.
He had not done much sorting.
Though her absence weakened him, he truly did not feel so incredibly lost until he had felt the gold of her gaze wash over him, brush by him without so much as a second glance – as if it would have been better if she had never known him. How could he blame her? He nearly agrees with her; he is a worn and defeated thing, nearly lifeless and clings so selfishly to those around him so that they may keep what providing the happiness he works so hard to achieve. She hasn’t even begun to dig through the filth that is his struggles, not able to bring himself to allow her to take on his afflictions.
He feels like crumbling, letting himself come to pieces before her and collapsing to the dew-strewn grass below him. He had wanted her safe and she was, but he was still not satisfied. His stomach still churns with uncertainty and worry, feelings that he thought would cease once she returned to him. The fact that they still cling there, precariously perched on the rapid pulse of his heartbeat, lets him know that there was more to this bond than he had initially realized; but she could not want him, not in that way, for no one did. He is not of any importance, merely a stranded and broken soul staring up to the sky to try to find answers in the stars.
Part of him has also been selfish, and with her before him, staring at him with wide and apologetic eyes, stir more feelings of distraught and frustration through his chest. What did he expect from her? He refuses to share anything about his own struggle, yet fully expects her to comfort him with an unyielding ferocity. It was (and is) unfair. He attempts to bring his chin to his chest, trying to hide beneath the thickness of the forelock that falls over his auburn face, but he is not successful. She follows and finds him, as so she nobly will always do for him, leaving the pale gold of her lips to press beneath his throat, the warmth of her breath (that he was so undeserving of) soaking into his skin. She embraces him, her loyalty and devotion attempting to soothe the shuddering of his breaths. The gesture causes his heart to turn violently inside his chest, his jaw clenching as his body tenses, eyes squeezing shut.
Then, she apologizes.
Warrick’s eyes flutter open, their cerulean color shining brilliantly as the wild wind of his many feelings come to fruition in their depths. He steps out from under her embrace, fluidly and gracefully, for the guilt that finds the features of his face now seem to rattle his entire being. How had he let it come to this?
“No, Ellyse,” he says solidly, his eyes finding hers as he turns his face towards her. “You are to never to apologize to me. I am sorry I’ve led you to believe that you must. You do not owe me an explanation.”
His eyes now soften, still laced with a guilt that he knew he deserves to feel. He desperately wishes to step back beneath her embrace again, to feel the soft feathers of her wings cover and hide him, but he does not move.
I'm the only one who will walk across a fire for you.
it's only fear that makes you run, the demons that you're hiding from.
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.
She has brought him so much pain (though, was it really she who caused it?) – yet, so much life. He cannot begin to unravel the mysteries that she had revealed to him, by her mere presence and loyalty. It is a gesture he did not deserve; a gesture that he should have made clear that she should not have to give him. The pain he feels is self-inflicted, despite the remnants being tied to the golden mare that stands beside him. She is the general of Tephra, keeping her duties and attempting to greaten the kingdom itself; her thoughts and devotion should not be set on some outcast, a stranger that had immersed himself into her world that he was so unfamiliar (and undeserving) of. He is nothing, a mere name on the wind with no significance, lost on the night’s breeze.
Despite the night air being so familiar to him, it did not bring him any comfort as he stands beneath the starlight, unsure and wary as the day he had arrived in Tephra. All of the feelings of doubt seem to crowd him once again, pressing against him and attempting to rip him into shreds, to become folds of flesh on the moonlit ground.
She had left him, yes, but it was not out of spite or selfishness; it is in his own selfishness that he had devised some sort of twisted story - where she had disappeared into the night without a trace, only to return to him as half the woman he remembers.
It was so, so unfair.
The guilt sends him reeling, nearly faint-hearted at the story he had told himself. He had always been so good at storytelling; it was not surprising that he could convince himself of a wild tale that he had spun himself. He searches for her, attempting to find something sturdy to clasp onto, but he realizes it is in vain; she is no longer there.
“Ellyse,” he whispers – but it is lost on the wind, falling on deaf ears that he had created himself. A hurricane of his own making, a storm that was unstoppable and unrelenting in its force, all before him in a body of gold and pale ivory.
Anger? No…
The words do not come; they do not find his lips as confidently as they had in the moments before. They are lost as well, swirling in the raging winds that seem to toss him insistently. Her questions, there were so many, he could not answer them all. He did not have the answers that she sought, the ones that he wishes to tell her… He closes his eyes in defeat, squeezing auburn lids tightly shut around the burning blue of his irises.
This is going all wrong. He had meant to repair, not destroy. He was to set her free from the burden of a broken soul, free to soar to the heights that she so well deserved.
He had promised to keep her grounded.
“Ellyse,” he pleads again, his voice quivering uncertainly on the night air. “Your feelings are your own, they need no justification.” His eyes are still closed tightly, an exhalation leaving his cobalt lips that he did not realize he was holding. Anger? How could he ever hold anger in his heart? If he did, it would not be for her, though he knows nothing of the emotion when it came to those he cared – it is unfamiliar and unrecognizable by him. Even now, he does not hate his family for leaving him; the idea was foreign.
“I deserve nothing,” he says firmly, yet it was merely a whisper only meant for her, his neck stretching towards her in response, longing for the warmth of her against him to protect him from the overwhelming amount of fear and doubt that has begun to lace him. “I won’t.” It would be the death of him if he were the reason that distraught finds her – it was not his intent and he wishes to scrub the idea from her mind. Instead, he murmurs the promise again quietly, “I won’t.”
He steps towards her, aching for the silkiness of her feathers against his skin, for their downy texture to sweep over him like a cloak. He reaches for her cheek, but he knows that the gesture might be dismissed with a quick flick of her head in the other direction, away from him. “You deserve everything, Ellyse. I cannot give that to you. I am not him.” He pauses, his breath caught in his throat painfully. “I am not Magnus.”
I'm the only one who will walk across a fire for you.
it's only fear that makes you run, the demons that you're hiding from.
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.
He longs for her closeness, her devotion and her comfort, but the overwhelming feeling of his own selfishness and guilt plague his tender thoughts. Unworthy, undeserving, and unfit. The words settle in his mind, their sharp claws digging in and holding tight, slamming into him with full force. He feels like all of the air has left his lungs, he feels empty and devoured, nothing but shattered bone and thin, sinewy muscle. He had not expected for his attachment to become so problematic; though, how could it not? His need for reassurance of his value, his need for closeness and support had been tainted, beginning with that night on the mountain that seems so very long ago. She didn’t know that her need for his friendship would mean something different to him, something twisted and almost unhealthy. How would she know that he would try to feed off her care for him, when he didn’t know it would happen himself?
Ellyse had tried. She saw the signs, not in him, but herself, of something that was far too much for either of them. She is logical, so had stepped herself away from the situation so that it would not come to anything that would pierce the cord of their bond, but even in her attempt to keep them safe, he still was able to cause strain onto both of them.
He is thankful that she allows his touch, his lips searching the pale gold of her cheek as it nourishes him, giving him new strength that he knew would only bring that terrible pang of hope. He tries to push it down with a hard swallow in his throat, knowing that the sensation of hope would only bring him the familiar pain of loss, feeling her become tense beneath his touch as his words find her. He is not worthy of her commitment and time, even now beneath the soft starlight that he belongs in. He knows this fully, but he is selfish, and the promise of closeness to soothe the ache in his chest is enough for him to pursue it, to chase down a dream that he believes only she can fulfill for him. He cannot make himself happy, only the intimacy of her friendship, the ache in her voice as she tries to comfort him (and herself), could do that.
He's trying to tell her, trying to convince her that the precarious situation that he has thrown themselves into will not end well, he is not who she would ever want, but he knows he is not trying hard enough. He refuses to speak plainly, to say that he thinks part of him is attracted to her devotion to him and that her confession of needing him brings life to the parts of him that are all but numb, that he selfishly wants her to be his. However, he remains silent, the wetness of her tears dampening his cheek from where she presses against him.
‘I am not asking you to love me,’
There is a shudder as he realizes it is too late, the attachment that he has to her is there and thrumming wildly, and it frightens him to think what will happen if he is left again, even in friendship.
“I need you, too,” His voice says his confession solidly, without hesitation, for he is certain. He leans into her, breathing softly as his chest seems to loosen and relax, comfort seeping into his very being. “You are my anchor; with you I will not become lost at sea.”
I'm the only one who will walk across a fire for you.
it's only fear that makes you run, the demons that you're hiding from.
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.
