07-16-2017, 10:45 PM
out of the woods, out of the dark, i’m well aware of the shadows in my heart
What’s wrong, he had asked, you, she had answered.
She says it roughly and he flinches, his teeth clenching to reveal deep furrows in his dark cheeks. Was it possible she could see inside his head now, see his thoughts and his secrets as easily as rifling through the pages of an old book? Could she see his wrongness and shied from it instinctively as others had? But no, she speaks again and he realizes she had not meant him - not what he had done or who he had become. Not the dark waiting impatiently (it was not used to being caged for so long) just beneath his skin.
Where have you been? She asks just as roughly, but he does not stiffen, does not flinch like before because in her words is the most beautiful gift she could have given him. Freedom. A chance to forget, maybe. Though not in sleep or the early hours of morning when the nightmares would spill like black from his veins. Not when he closed his eyes and let his guard down. Still though, she did not know, had not seen, and he watches her cautiously, not quite distant but definitely wary, more careful now that he knew he had secrets to keep buried. Secrets that were still his own.
“I-” he starts, hesitates, and then she is crushed against his chest and holding him close and he cannot stop the reflex to pull her closer. His neck drops over her withers, his mouth soft where it tastes the salt and earth on her opposite shoulder. She feels different to him - sharper bones in longer ridges, deep hollows. His grip tightens around her, holds her against him and even his wings lift to surround her. “Heartfire,” he says low, sharp, a warning to his own ears. But she doesn’t seem to hear him, doesn’t pull away, and he is left to the war in his chest as his lips trace everything they can reach.
She pulls back then, finally, slowly, breathing deep and focused on him with such intensity that his scowl softens and he reaches out to touch her cheek, not quite a kiss but something close to it, and says, “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not going to disappear.” It’s only then that he notices the dust falling around them, filthy snow except it’s dry and not nearly cold enough. He looks up and then back down at her again, obviously curious despite the quiet of his expression. “You?” He’s almost softening, almost reaching to pull her back against his chest again, but then she asks that question, the wrong question, and distance swells between them.
His eyes abandon her face, drift back to the trees, to the branches that seem thinner now that they’ve been undressed by her pain. When they return to her face they are calmer now, all those secrets made safely invisible. “Not omniscient after all.” Is all he gives her for an answer, a grim, crooked smile sitting on his lips when he reaches out to brush her forelock from her eyes. It’s meant to distract, yes, but there is something more there, too, and he buries it deeply before she can notice. “Good to know.” He glances away again, clenches his jaw and then looks at her once more. “Hey,” a pause, and there is genuine worry in the gravel of his voice, faint and guarded, but there nonetheless, “How are mom and dad? Augusta?”
She says it roughly and he flinches, his teeth clenching to reveal deep furrows in his dark cheeks. Was it possible she could see inside his head now, see his thoughts and his secrets as easily as rifling through the pages of an old book? Could she see his wrongness and shied from it instinctively as others had? But no, she speaks again and he realizes she had not meant him - not what he had done or who he had become. Not the dark waiting impatiently (it was not used to being caged for so long) just beneath his skin.
Where have you been? She asks just as roughly, but he does not stiffen, does not flinch like before because in her words is the most beautiful gift she could have given him. Freedom. A chance to forget, maybe. Though not in sleep or the early hours of morning when the nightmares would spill like black from his veins. Not when he closed his eyes and let his guard down. Still though, she did not know, had not seen, and he watches her cautiously, not quite distant but definitely wary, more careful now that he knew he had secrets to keep buried. Secrets that were still his own.
“I-” he starts, hesitates, and then she is crushed against his chest and holding him close and he cannot stop the reflex to pull her closer. His neck drops over her withers, his mouth soft where it tastes the salt and earth on her opposite shoulder. She feels different to him - sharper bones in longer ridges, deep hollows. His grip tightens around her, holds her against him and even his wings lift to surround her. “Heartfire,” he says low, sharp, a warning to his own ears. But she doesn’t seem to hear him, doesn’t pull away, and he is left to the war in his chest as his lips trace everything they can reach.
She pulls back then, finally, slowly, breathing deep and focused on him with such intensity that his scowl softens and he reaches out to touch her cheek, not quite a kiss but something close to it, and says, “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not going to disappear.” It’s only then that he notices the dust falling around them, filthy snow except it’s dry and not nearly cold enough. He looks up and then back down at her again, obviously curious despite the quiet of his expression. “You?” He’s almost softening, almost reaching to pull her back against his chest again, but then she asks that question, the wrong question, and distance swells between them.
His eyes abandon her face, drift back to the trees, to the branches that seem thinner now that they’ve been undressed by her pain. When they return to her face they are calmer now, all those secrets made safely invisible. “Not omniscient after all.” Is all he gives her for an answer, a grim, crooked smile sitting on his lips when he reaches out to brush her forelock from her eyes. It’s meant to distract, yes, but there is something more there, too, and he buries it deeply before she can notice. “Good to know.” He glances away again, clenches his jaw and then looks at her once more. “Hey,” a pause, and there is genuine worry in the gravel of his voice, faint and guarded, but there nonetheless, “How are mom and dad? Augusta?”
Illum