Wallace
She wandered aimlessly, drifting listlessly through the furthest end of the island. Far, far away from the sandbar where people might travel, and into the quiet of a dense jungle with whispering sea breezes and sleepy little birdsongs. She left behind her Irish guardian, that glint of worry in his eyes haunting her mind as she asked to be alone for a time, leaving the twins in his watchful care. Just for a time. Just until she could be free of this heavy sorrow slowly consuming her, poisoning all the moments with them that should be good and happy.
Alone and empty. Her life had been that way for so very long. Over the quiet months, she learned she was pregnant, grew and grew and experienced all these new and frightening changes on her own. Alone. Without a steady hand to hold her, without soft lies telling her everything would be ok. They were gone, all gone. They brought her here and left her. And never came back, never came to see her.
She was so alone. So ruined.
Lacey, baby, the smooth silk of a voice she knew, never thought she would hear again. Had never wanted to. She tensed, but slowly turned dull, brown eyes to him, an empty gaze over a shoulder draped in flowing brown hair. That part of his time with her had been reversed; the magician had grown it back out to something even softer and prettier than it had been before. No longer matted and tangled, no longer needing to be groomed at all. It never seemed to lay any way but perfectly, so at odds with the rest of her plain self. Plain, save for the lace.
He was speaking again, and dimly she realized her heart was racing. Of course it was. Why wouldn't it be with him here? He who did this all. No, she did this. It was her fault. She'd taunted him into it. She'd caused this all. He certainly had his own faults in it, but perhaps she'd deserved them in some way. He was the only one to have touched her, to have known her. Now, he was the only one that ever would. Ruined. Nobody had wanted her before, they certainly wouldn't want her now, after everything. There would only ever be him.
His face suddenly shifted to something between dismay and disgust as he continued, grey eyes looking over the intricate artwork he'd left on the soft curve of her hips. Her head turned to look too, though she had always avoided doing that, trying to find what had upset the artist of this wicked masterpiece. Berries, he'd said. Berries and leaves, and yes, there they were, curled and twisted within the lace he'd drawn there. Oh, she said softly, surprised, too. I hadn't noticed. Hollow and quiet. The corner of her mouth tightened briefly, just a fleeting moment of an almost-smile, before it was gone again, blank again. Pleased by the change or amused at his distress, she wasn't sure. Perhaps both.
She turned to him again, meeting that face so easily. Because she had known him too. It never crossed her mind to call for help, to scan around for some sort of savior. There was never a hero for her. And maybe she didn't need one. Maybe he meant what he said, that he came to make things right. Did that make her naive? Only if she truly believed it, she supposed, which she didn't. But she was resigned, knew the power he could hold over her, knew that within a blink she could be held in place for him. Precisely so, in just the right way.
Fear was adrenaline. Anticipation was too.
Her voice was breathy when she spoke again, though her chin lifted in that familiar defiance that never quite seemed to leave her.
I think I won't like your kind of apology.
