06-22-2017, 03:23 AM
Ellyse
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.
Her own memories were so different than his – as the daughter of an unusual creature (an equus lepidoptera; with the slender, muscled body of a horse, and the delicate, yet remarkable features of a moth - large compound eyes, six sinewy, too-flexible legs, large and intricately patterned wings, and so much more), she was already too familiar with how odd and peculiar life could be. The memory of her father nestling her close beneath his light, fragile wing, his probiscus tickling the crook of her jaw line to provoke any hint of her soft, bubbling laughter is still heavy on her mind, even now, as longing clutches tightly to his wistful tone. She hardly knew her own mother – a flittering figment of her imagination, at most, but she had never yearned for anything more than what she had. She cannot help but to wonder if his anguish is born of so much more than the agony of a life cursed without his father to guide him, but she is not so brazen as to ask the whereabouts of his mother, knowing with a gentle roll of apprehension within her belly that the likelihood was that there were no warm, loving memories to find there.
His apology is more intricate, then, but she does not say a word – she knew the meaning behind it, and she still would not accept it. Heartache is a heavy burden, one that cannot be carried too long before its weight is too much for the sufferer to take. Her gentle prying had been just enough for his knees to buckle, stirring the rage, disappointment, and sorrow from deep inside of him – and if she had to ensure his scathing truth, his biting words, so be it, if it gave him any sort of release at all.
She could remember a time not too long ago in which she had held her own broken heart in her proverbial hands, weeping and grieving a love never truly had. As the memories of her children (so rebellious, wild, and free) move to the surface of her mind, of the stillborn daughter that had laid quietly before her, she is reminded of how deep and how harrowing the torment of losing a child was – and in turn, how much it must hurt to lose a father. A mother.
When her skin touches his, it is fleeting, but it elicits a low moan from his ragged vocal cords, and a flicker of concern emerges in the glimmer of her eye – but it soon wanes, wondering how long it had been since he had had any contact at all. Even she longed for the comfort and solace of another – her, the solitary one, so content to be alone and isolated from all the rest. Even she yearned for the touch for another; the most simple and primal of necessities. Gently, she touches him again, brushing her nose over the puckered scarring gently, quieting his soft, aching confession.
I am drowning,
”No, no – “ ah, but he is, and she is powerless against the current of his own emotion to stop it, and so she can be little else but a buoy, drifting out to sea with him.
I am drowning, he whispers again.
”No, Ledger,” she mumbles softly against his skin, a deeply rooted instinct stirring – wanting to protect him, to shield him from the onslaught of the storm waging war in his own mind. He does not remind her at all of her own children, but his voice is so soft, so meek, she can almost hear her son in his own youth, pleading with her to stay by his side under the shadow of a summer storm passes by. ”it will pass,” she says softly, as she has said before, touching is neck where his pulse thrums rapidly. ”it will pass.”
when all your promises are gone, I'm the only one.