02-20-2021, 02:34 PM
jarris
It is some wild wonder that she can bear to look at him at all.
Not even just since his fateful trip to the Mountain.
But in all of the years their hearts have been irreversibly tethered.
It’s true that the crown of thorns makes him weak, small, lesser. But he’s never understood how he has not always looked this way to her. He’s never understood how she could bear to look past his indiscretions and find something worthwhile underneath. He will never understand (and he will certainly spend the rest of eternity trying to understand) what it was about him that she thought was worth waiting all those years for. How it makes him ache, still, to think of all the life she has wasted on him.
(Alas, he is so horribly selfish and unwilling to let her go. He will not try to convince her that she deserves more than this. He will savor whatever time they have left together. He will not leave her again.)
The heart flutters and aches and throbs with its sickness to hear her speak so sweetly, to feel her kiss him so tenderly. Sometimes it feels like the heart will burst right out of his chest. Sometimes he wishes it would. For now, though, it pulses urgently against his ribs and he lays his head against her neck and lets her assure him that their children are fine and he believes her. Aren’t they strong and clever and resilient? Again, he shoves away the encroaching thought that their son might somehow be indirectly responsible for this terrible darkness, refusing to lend a voice to it.
He is on the verge of relaxing (as much as he is capable of relaxing anymore) into this corner of quiet, the closest thing to a safe haven they have found in the crushing shadowland, when he hears it, too. Immediately, he tenses, acutely aware that the sound of drawn breath had been distinctly not equine.
He answers her question with a faint nod, not wanting to speak and risk drawing more attention to them. He lifts his head to hook his chin over her neck, anchoring her to his side. He has not fought in what feels like decades, but he will do what he has to.
Not even just since his fateful trip to the Mountain.
But in all of the years their hearts have been irreversibly tethered.
It’s true that the crown of thorns makes him weak, small, lesser. But he’s never understood how he has not always looked this way to her. He’s never understood how she could bear to look past his indiscretions and find something worthwhile underneath. He will never understand (and he will certainly spend the rest of eternity trying to understand) what it was about him that she thought was worth waiting all those years for. How it makes him ache, still, to think of all the life she has wasted on him.
(Alas, he is so horribly selfish and unwilling to let her go. He will not try to convince her that she deserves more than this. He will savor whatever time they have left together. He will not leave her again.)
The heart flutters and aches and throbs with its sickness to hear her speak so sweetly, to feel her kiss him so tenderly. Sometimes it feels like the heart will burst right out of his chest. Sometimes he wishes it would. For now, though, it pulses urgently against his ribs and he lays his head against her neck and lets her assure him that their children are fine and he believes her. Aren’t they strong and clever and resilient? Again, he shoves away the encroaching thought that their son might somehow be indirectly responsible for this terrible darkness, refusing to lend a voice to it.
He is on the verge of relaxing (as much as he is capable of relaxing anymore) into this corner of quiet, the closest thing to a safe haven they have found in the crushing shadowland, when he hears it, too. Immediately, he tenses, acutely aware that the sound of drawn breath had been distinctly not equine.
He answers her question with a faint nod, not wanting to speak and risk drawing more attention to them. He lifts his head to hook his chin over her neck, anchoring her to his side. He has not fought in what feels like decades, but he will do what he has to.
I WAS READY TO DIE FOR YA, BABY
DOESN’T MEAN I’M READY TO STAY
DOESN’T MEAN I’M READY TO STAY
@[Plumeria]
i'm sorry this is real poopy