06-06-2021, 09:43 PM
Ryatah
She feels the shift in him.
Feels the way that single word does more than simply stall his touch, and all her years of being obedient and willing are at once at war with her own version of resistance. She almost bends to it, almost lets herself collapse beneath what she perceives to be his anger or disappointment. She has never told anyone to stop before—she has never done anything other than try to be exactly what she thought they wanted her to be, even if it felt wrong. Her instincts—everything so thoroughly engraved into the very makings of her that nothing could ever change it—struggle to find the surface, to break past her skin, and force her to whisper an apology and take it all back.
But her heart, usually so wretched and immoral, cannot bring itself to betray Atrox.
Though it writhes in her chest, unfamiliar with being so steadfast, she does not cave, not even when the darkness seems to swallow him whole.
He melts into the dark until he is nearly nothing, and though she is used to his shadows and the way he can craft and shift them, this is something else entirely. She cannot see the familiar angles of him anymore, cannot find the edges she was used to tracing or fitting herself against.
He changes, and she feels something break inside of her because she knows it is her fault.
It is not just the dark, but also the look in his eye now rimmed with silver, the way his face has changed when he looks at her, the way his mouth says her name and not angel. She does nothing to try to take it back, though, does nothing to try to stop this avalanche of their destruction, because what purpose would that serve? He could find someone else, could be loved by someone else, but not with her still attached to him.
She outwardly flinches when he says that he loves her, the words seeming to singe against her skin and her nerves. She was not used to hearing them—of all the men that she has loved and all the turbulent romances she has found herself in, only Skellig and Atrox have ever told her they loved her. Illum says it so clearly, so plainly, as if he is telling her this as a fact and not a thing he is professing—as if she would not be able to hear the undercurrent of pain when he speaks. She does not respond, does not tell him that she had loved him at one time, too, and instead lets her silence build a divide between them that she could have never have put there on her own.
He mentions the feather and she feels her skin flush hot, though she does not look for it. If he says it is there, she knows it is. Her tongue is restless because she wants to tell him she is not sure if it’s a good idea, to keep any kind of tether between the two of them, but she has already given up so much—given him up—that she cannot bring herself to actually say it. She will keep it, this one last thing that binds them together; she will be selfish, in this one last way.
“Nothing is ever only shadow,” she manages quietly in response, but she does not expect that he heard her. He is already disappearing into the endless dark, and she does try to stop him. Her light is not the light that is meant to save him, and she understands that now.
Feels the way that single word does more than simply stall his touch, and all her years of being obedient and willing are at once at war with her own version of resistance. She almost bends to it, almost lets herself collapse beneath what she perceives to be his anger or disappointment. She has never told anyone to stop before—she has never done anything other than try to be exactly what she thought they wanted her to be, even if it felt wrong. Her instincts—everything so thoroughly engraved into the very makings of her that nothing could ever change it—struggle to find the surface, to break past her skin, and force her to whisper an apology and take it all back.
But her heart, usually so wretched and immoral, cannot bring itself to betray Atrox.
Though it writhes in her chest, unfamiliar with being so steadfast, she does not cave, not even when the darkness seems to swallow him whole.
He melts into the dark until he is nearly nothing, and though she is used to his shadows and the way he can craft and shift them, this is something else entirely. She cannot see the familiar angles of him anymore, cannot find the edges she was used to tracing or fitting herself against.
He changes, and she feels something break inside of her because she knows it is her fault.
It is not just the dark, but also the look in his eye now rimmed with silver, the way his face has changed when he looks at her, the way his mouth says her name and not angel. She does nothing to try to take it back, though, does nothing to try to stop this avalanche of their destruction, because what purpose would that serve? He could find someone else, could be loved by someone else, but not with her still attached to him.
She outwardly flinches when he says that he loves her, the words seeming to singe against her skin and her nerves. She was not used to hearing them—of all the men that she has loved and all the turbulent romances she has found herself in, only Skellig and Atrox have ever told her they loved her. Illum says it so clearly, so plainly, as if he is telling her this as a fact and not a thing he is professing—as if she would not be able to hear the undercurrent of pain when he speaks. She does not respond, does not tell him that she had loved him at one time, too, and instead lets her silence build a divide between them that she could have never have put there on her own.
He mentions the feather and she feels her skin flush hot, though she does not look for it. If he says it is there, she knows it is. Her tongue is restless because she wants to tell him she is not sure if it’s a good idea, to keep any kind of tether between the two of them, but she has already given up so much—given him up—that she cannot bring herself to actually say it. She will keep it, this one last thing that binds them together; she will be selfish, in this one last way.
“Nothing is ever only shadow,” she manages quietly in response, but she does not expect that he heard her. He is already disappearing into the endless dark, and she does try to stop him. Her light is not the light that is meant to save him, and she understands that now.
EVEN ANGELS HAVE THEIR WICKED SCHEMES