03-22-2021, 12:04 AM
Ryatah
— there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you, don't you agree?
He comes to her, wounded and bleeding, and while she is somewhat used to the sight—because there are parts of him that will never be tamed down, not even for her, and all she cares about is that he comes back—it still inspires an ache in her chest. Only the ache is cold and empty now, like her heart is encased in ice. Like it is trying so hard to beat, but instead the movement is going to cause it to break.
She catches his eye when he tries to touch her, sees the way he pulls away and she tries not to let that sharp intake of breath to cut through the ghost of her.
He confirmed what she had already known to be true, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
She has always been a creature that craved touch, that needed to feel the heat of someone else against her. Over their years together she has grown used to him, especially, to the weight of him against her when they slept, to the hungry way his teeth and lips found her neck each day.
The fear that she will never feel that again is nothing compared to the fear that he is going to eventually leave. She would never expect him to remain tethered to the side of someone he could never feel, a love that could never be made tangible.
She could live with her own ache and want, but she could never force him to live with it too.
She looks at him with dark and haunted eyes, behind the wispy strands of a stark white forelock and below the muted glow of a dying halo, and somehow her mouth twists into an almost smile. “Honestly, I can’t leave you alone for a second.” She closes the small space he had put between them, and she reaches for him. Her healing feels shockingly warm when everything else about her feels so cold, like gold illuminating her veins, and suddenly it is the most tangible thing about her. She wraps him in it because it is all she has, erasing the marks across his body and removing the swelling from his eye, and she can almost pretend that she is actually touching him.
She heals him slowly in comparison to what she can usually do, purposely lingering, relishing in this only intimacy they have left.
“There,” she says softly once she is done, withdrawing just slightly to look at him. The ache returns, heavy and frigid, and with the warmth of her healing gone they are again left in the wake of her own destruction, her mistakes.
“I shouldn’t have gone,” she begins, suddenly desperate to explain it to him, to beg for a forgiveness that she doesn’t deserve. “I thought I could help Este, but…” her voice fades with a shake of her head, her eyes on the ground before looking up to him again. Her words become unsteady with the tremble that takes hold of them, a sudden flood of panic washing over her, “Firion was there. Firion was there, and I couldn’t help him either, there’s something wrong with him and he didn’t even come to us for help.” Her words cut off suddenly, recoiling away from him slightly, recognizing that she was spilling out problems that he could not fix— he could not make her whole again, could not bring back the sun, could not explain why their son was dying and avoiding her.
“I’m sorry,” she finally whispers, and she knows she does not have to explain what she is sorry for. She is sorry for failing him, again, in new ways that she has never failed anyone before.
She catches his eye when he tries to touch her, sees the way he pulls away and she tries not to let that sharp intake of breath to cut through the ghost of her.
He confirmed what she had already known to be true, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
She has always been a creature that craved touch, that needed to feel the heat of someone else against her. Over their years together she has grown used to him, especially, to the weight of him against her when they slept, to the hungry way his teeth and lips found her neck each day.
The fear that she will never feel that again is nothing compared to the fear that he is going to eventually leave. She would never expect him to remain tethered to the side of someone he could never feel, a love that could never be made tangible.
She could live with her own ache and want, but she could never force him to live with it too.
She looks at him with dark and haunted eyes, behind the wispy strands of a stark white forelock and below the muted glow of a dying halo, and somehow her mouth twists into an almost smile. “Honestly, I can’t leave you alone for a second.” She closes the small space he had put between them, and she reaches for him. Her healing feels shockingly warm when everything else about her feels so cold, like gold illuminating her veins, and suddenly it is the most tangible thing about her. She wraps him in it because it is all she has, erasing the marks across his body and removing the swelling from his eye, and she can almost pretend that she is actually touching him.
She heals him slowly in comparison to what she can usually do, purposely lingering, relishing in this only intimacy they have left.
“There,” she says softly once she is done, withdrawing just slightly to look at him. The ache returns, heavy and frigid, and with the warmth of her healing gone they are again left in the wake of her own destruction, her mistakes.
“I shouldn’t have gone,” she begins, suddenly desperate to explain it to him, to beg for a forgiveness that she doesn’t deserve. “I thought I could help Este, but…” her voice fades with a shake of her head, her eyes on the ground before looking up to him again. Her words become unsteady with the tremble that takes hold of them, a sudden flood of panic washing over her, “Firion was there. Firion was there, and I couldn’t help him either, there’s something wrong with him and he didn’t even come to us for help.” Her words cut off suddenly, recoiling away from him slightly, recognizing that she was spilling out problems that he could not fix— he could not make her whole again, could not bring back the sun, could not explain why their son was dying and avoiding her.
“I’m sorry,” she finally whispers, and she knows she does not have to explain what she is sorry for. She is sorry for failing him, again, in new ways that she has never failed anyone before.
there's something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin —