01-19-2020, 03:39 AM
BRUNHILDE
I BET ON LOSING DOGS
Brunhilde has never known kindness. Even with how much her parents love her, and how they were mostly happy, she has never known kindness in its purest form. Those first kisses from her mother and father, affections of the purest love, have long left her memory.
In fact, she can hardly remember anything. She can barely recall where she awoke this morning.
Beelzebub has been gone for awhile now, and while there is a small amount of relief, Hildy feels an ache in her chest like nothing she has felt before. A small part of her—perhaps a part of her she will find one day—knows that she deserves a better ending. One where she spits on his dead body. One where she releases herself, and he does not grow tired of her. One where she is liberated by the power of her own hand.
But he loves her (doesn’t he?). Brunhilde tells herself he loves her, and that is why he must go. Because he loves her so much he cannot hurt her any longer. Still, even within her delusion that Bub is noble, Brun aches to have him back. She aches just as the bare tree trunks ache to have their coverage back; she is just as naked and stripped as they are, cold and defeated.
Perhaps even dead.
“Oh,” Brun gasps, backpedalling as her foggy gaze sharpens to study the handsome man a few feet before her. The crack and crunch of frost and ice was loud enough to mask his breathing from her distracted mind; so Hildy lifts her head proudly in an attempt to eradicate any thought that she may be surprised.
“Sorry,” Hildy eventually barks out, casting nervous gemstone eyes to the scenery beyond Arquus.
Normally, the glowing woman would mutter a goodbye and head on her way; but it has been so long since she has seen Bub, and she finds the warmth in Arquus’ eyes undeniably handsome. “What are . . . you doing?” she asks, pausing in such a way that indicates she hardly carries conversation.
In fact, she can hardly remember anything. She can barely recall where she awoke this morning.
Beelzebub has been gone for awhile now, and while there is a small amount of relief, Hildy feels an ache in her chest like nothing she has felt before. A small part of her—perhaps a part of her she will find one day—knows that she deserves a better ending. One where she spits on his dead body. One where she releases herself, and he does not grow tired of her. One where she is liberated by the power of her own hand.
But he loves her (doesn’t he?). Brunhilde tells herself he loves her, and that is why he must go. Because he loves her so much he cannot hurt her any longer. Still, even within her delusion that Bub is noble, Brun aches to have him back. She aches just as the bare tree trunks ache to have their coverage back; she is just as naked and stripped as they are, cold and defeated.
Perhaps even dead.
“Oh,” Brun gasps, backpedalling as her foggy gaze sharpens to study the handsome man a few feet before her. The crack and crunch of frost and ice was loud enough to mask his breathing from her distracted mind; so Hildy lifts her head proudly in an attempt to eradicate any thought that she may be surprised.
“Sorry,” Hildy eventually barks out, casting nervous gemstone eyes to the scenery beyond Arquus.
Normally, the glowing woman would mutter a goodbye and head on her way; but it has been so long since she has seen Bub, and she finds the warmth in Arquus’ eyes undeniably handsome. “What are . . . you doing?” she asks, pausing in such a way that indicates she hardly carries conversation.
