i don't have a choice, but i'd still choose you. || hawke

[Ellyse]

your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. i don't love you, but i always will.

    There is nothing rigid, nothing robust about the way her heart aches, and the way the tightly stitched seams of her emotions come undone beneath his prying eyes – and it is entirely infuriating, how easily her resolve unravels from the warmth of his breath or the heat of his touch. She is rife with frustration, taunted by the weakness in her quaking knees and the boiling blood within her veins, and it only leaves her longing for the long, seemingly endless hours spent alone beneath the stars – lost only to herself and to the starlit sky.

  She is entirely taken with him, though – there is no part of her that isn’t his; there is no piece of her that is left untouched by him. Though it is always something of a comfort to have him near to her, she is worn and tattered, her tenacity fraying at the edges and crumbling with each gentle murmur and fervid kiss. A deeply rooted fear unnerves her (a fear of loss; one not unlike his own – but she would not dare to confess it to him), leaving her in the wake of its infectious infliction.

  As her own eyes take in the sight of her beautiful daughter, of their flawless conception – with her wild, tousled mane and bright, vibrant eyes (with the very same golden flecks of her father, though the color was entirely her own), her heart threatens to nearly burst from the sinewy restraint of her chest with pride and delight. She is reminded by her too well that he has given her the very thread of his own heart and soul; an invaluable gift. Her daughter gently tugs at the pallid tresses sewn into her own flesh, and she cannot hide the smile that has crept its way in, chasing away the wretchedness that had only just moments ago consumed her.

  ”You are beautiful, and you will always be so to me.” she murmurs with finality, her own teeth soon preening her tangled mane, tasting the earth on her skin. The smile soon wanes as her mouth hardens into a solemn line, a soft sigh slipping away from her. ”I like to think that you are more than I am – more than your father is, Hawke,” A pause, ”I like to think that you are the best part of us. You and your brother, both.”

  She cannot remain so serious when her daughter exudes such warmth, and soon her stoicism is chased away again, and the faintest of a smile returns.

  ”We would have the grandest adventure,” she muses, hazel eyes alight with a childlike mischief. ”and maybe we still can.”

Ellyse

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