01-24-2021, 04:37 PM
choke them on the ashes of the dreams they burned
He can taste her pain and he wishes it did not taste as sweet as it did.
There was a version of himself, long dead and lost in a maze of caves underground, that would have never dreamt of hurting her. A version of himself that would have seen the bruised look in her eyes and been cleaved in two by the pain on her face.
But now all that remains is this shadowed shell of what he had once been, a smoke-filled skeleton that fed on pain and anger rather than light and love. He wars with himself, he fights this urge to press a finger to her pain and see how sharp he can make it; the part of him that recognizes how wrong it is, the part of him that doesn't want to be the source of her sorrow. The sound of her response — a single word, cold and heavy — makes something inside of him flinch, but it does not register in the shadows of his face. “Because I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he answers her honestly. He did want her to be okay — he wanted her to be happy, he wanted her to be with him but away from him, he wanted her safe but he wanted her all to himself.
He couldn’t have all of those things. He knows this, but he refuses to see it.
She catches him off guard when she shifts, and he steps back in confusion. The confusion eventually caves way to a flicker of anger, though he cannot place why. He is not sure if she was trying to intimidate him, or trying to drive him away, but he finds that both ideas send pinpricks of fury down his spine.
It is difficult to see with the dark around them, but he shifts, too. The shadows that made him equine spin and tighten, leaving behind a canine shadow-beast to nearly match hers. It was a mistake on his part — he lacked control in this form, and when he speaks to her the words are a guttural growl spoken between sharp teeth. “You’re being difficult.”
There was a version of himself, long dead and lost in a maze of caves underground, that would have never dreamt of hurting her. A version of himself that would have seen the bruised look in her eyes and been cleaved in two by the pain on her face.
But now all that remains is this shadowed shell of what he had once been, a smoke-filled skeleton that fed on pain and anger rather than light and love. He wars with himself, he fights this urge to press a finger to her pain and see how sharp he can make it; the part of him that recognizes how wrong it is, the part of him that doesn't want to be the source of her sorrow. The sound of her response — a single word, cold and heavy — makes something inside of him flinch, but it does not register in the shadows of his face. “Because I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he answers her honestly. He did want her to be okay — he wanted her to be happy, he wanted her to be with him but away from him, he wanted her safe but he wanted her all to himself.
He couldn’t have all of those things. He knows this, but he refuses to see it.
She catches him off guard when she shifts, and he steps back in confusion. The confusion eventually caves way to a flicker of anger, though he cannot place why. He is not sure if she was trying to intimidate him, or trying to drive him away, but he finds that both ideas send pinpricks of fury down his spine.
It is difficult to see with the dark around them, but he shifts, too. The shadows that made him equine spin and tighten, leaving behind a canine shadow-beast to nearly match hers. It was a mistake on his part — he lacked control in this form, and when he speaks to her the words are a guttural growl spoken between sharp teeth. “You’re being difficult.”
torryn
