12-02-2017, 10:31 PM
Don't say I'm out of touch with this rampant chaos; your reality.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge.
She is up with the sun, stirred from the depth of her fitful sleep by the gleam of sunlight painted across the waves lapping hungrily along the shoreline. Drawn to the brightening horizon, she is unable to chase away the unrest within and, so she must move. The nightmares are fewer and further between, and the ache in her heart has long since subsided, washed away with the ravenous tide like blackened particles of volcanic rock. She does not always fall asleep beside Dahmer, though she is most rested and most at ease when she does. The weight of the crown is heavy, and ill-fitting – there is no surge of pride, nor any delight or glee taken in it.
It was not meant for her.
It had never been meant for her, despite her fantasy of old (and whatever deep, wayward dream lay buried in the darkest recesses of her mind). Age was beginning to wear on her – and though youth still clutches to the curve of her jaw, to the sway of her barrel and the swell of her hip, her eye is tired and lined with sullen darkness that cannot be washed away with the salty brine of the sea nor forgotten with restful slumber. She had been biting, sharp-tongued and heedless in her youth, but that part of her had finally begun to slip away, as her children had – as love had, more than once – and as she matures, so does her desire.
She is pulled abruptly from her reverie by the familiar rumble of his deep and masculine tone, and so as quickly as her gaze hardened upon him, it softened, while he caresses her cheek. A faint smile is roused from her own fatigue, tugging at the corner of her mouth as her lips press against his cheek in turn, returning the warmth and affection she had come to know from him. His remark is merely an observation (the sky is still clinging tightly to the frayed edges of evenfall, where the light cannot yet reach), but his question is heavy, and a sheepish gleam surfaces within the golden flecks of her one eye.
”Guilty,” she muses softly (how does he know her so well?), thinking of her son, of their son. She had never connected well with her children – her heart twinges with pain at the thought of Joplin and Joaquin, lost to their own wildness, parted from her breast as quickly as their hungry mouths had found it – but Smoak .. he had never seen the darkness in her heart, not as the rest had. He reminded her so much of Canaan; of her first-born that had seen too much and known too much. Of her first-born that had been lost to her, because of her own greed, because of her own unfiltered mouth and recklessness. Wild, sociable, free, Smoak is, and she could not be prouder.
He is raw and unfiltered beauty, and his departure from Tephra does leave a void within her heart. A worry that he might forget her, that he might come to resent her, as all the rest have.
She does not deserve his love, nor his affection.
Just as she does not deserve the love and affection of Dahmer –
(but she is deeply, desperately in love with him – with his temperament, his wit, his charm and his strength, and so she is selfish, wanting all that he is willing to give to her)
His father had taught him much, and so had she, as did his aunt, Scyla.
He would not merely survive. He would thrive.
She can feel it, in her heart, and so she merely presses her forehead into the crook of his neck, feeling his pulse and savoring the comfort of his unwavering presence and his warmth – and she says nothing else about it.
A low chuckle rises from the tightness of her throat, where her emotion is trapped, suffocated, smothered down into her chest. ”I’m all yours,” she muses quietly with a featherlight kiss where his thrumming pulse lay, though her mind is elsewhere for a moment. ”Warrick has returned, Dahmer. I happened upon him, last night ..” she murmurs, ”I am turning Tephra over to him; he is what is best for the island.”
And then, finally: ”Have you ever felt .. like there is more? Something more, pulling you away from the life you have built, telling you elsewhere is where you belong?” Her brow creases; she is all too aware that she is not making sense. ”This feeling in my chest .. I don’t know how to explain it.”
She had felt it before. When she had left the Valley, when she had left the Gates -
But never had she felt it so strongly.
It was not meant for her.
It had never been meant for her, despite her fantasy of old (and whatever deep, wayward dream lay buried in the darkest recesses of her mind). Age was beginning to wear on her – and though youth still clutches to the curve of her jaw, to the sway of her barrel and the swell of her hip, her eye is tired and lined with sullen darkness that cannot be washed away with the salty brine of the sea nor forgotten with restful slumber. She had been biting, sharp-tongued and heedless in her youth, but that part of her had finally begun to slip away, as her children had – as love had, more than once – and as she matures, so does her desire.
She is pulled abruptly from her reverie by the familiar rumble of his deep and masculine tone, and so as quickly as her gaze hardened upon him, it softened, while he caresses her cheek. A faint smile is roused from her own fatigue, tugging at the corner of her mouth as her lips press against his cheek in turn, returning the warmth and affection she had come to know from him. His remark is merely an observation (the sky is still clinging tightly to the frayed edges of evenfall, where the light cannot yet reach), but his question is heavy, and a sheepish gleam surfaces within the golden flecks of her one eye.
”Guilty,” she muses softly (how does he know her so well?), thinking of her son, of their son. She had never connected well with her children – her heart twinges with pain at the thought of Joplin and Joaquin, lost to their own wildness, parted from her breast as quickly as their hungry mouths had found it – but Smoak .. he had never seen the darkness in her heart, not as the rest had. He reminded her so much of Canaan; of her first-born that had seen too much and known too much. Of her first-born that had been lost to her, because of her own greed, because of her own unfiltered mouth and recklessness. Wild, sociable, free, Smoak is, and she could not be prouder.
He is raw and unfiltered beauty, and his departure from Tephra does leave a void within her heart. A worry that he might forget her, that he might come to resent her, as all the rest have.
She does not deserve his love, nor his affection.
Just as she does not deserve the love and affection of Dahmer –
(but she is deeply, desperately in love with him – with his temperament, his wit, his charm and his strength, and so she is selfish, wanting all that he is willing to give to her)
His father had taught him much, and so had she, as did his aunt, Scyla.
He would not merely survive. He would thrive.
She can feel it, in her heart, and so she merely presses her forehead into the crook of his neck, feeling his pulse and savoring the comfort of his unwavering presence and his warmth – and she says nothing else about it.
A low chuckle rises from the tightness of her throat, where her emotion is trapped, suffocated, smothered down into her chest. ”I’m all yours,” she muses quietly with a featherlight kiss where his thrumming pulse lay, though her mind is elsewhere for a moment. ”Warrick has returned, Dahmer. I happened upon him, last night ..” she murmurs, ”I am turning Tephra over to him; he is what is best for the island.”
And then, finally: ”Have you ever felt .. like there is more? Something more, pulling you away from the life you have built, telling you elsewhere is where you belong?” Her brow creases; she is all too aware that she is not making sense. ”This feeling in my chest .. I don’t know how to explain it.”
She had felt it before. When she had left the Valley, when she had left the Gates -
But never had she felt it so strongly.
Ellyse
(The nightmare) I built my own world to escape