09-09-2021, 03:10 PM
YOU'RE WALKING IN THE SHADOWS OF YOUR FEAR AND YOU'RE HEADED
FOR THE GALLOWS, SIN AROUND YOUR THROAT AND NO ONE'S NEAR
FOR THE GALLOWS, SIN AROUND YOUR THROAT AND NO ONE'S NEAR
He avoids her, because he knows that he has made a mistake.
He had made Despoina his, and let himself belong to her, even though he had known shadow was impossible to keep. He was going to slip through her grasp no matter how tightly she held and no matter what he promised her, but the way she made his heart swell inside of his chest, he could not imagine telling her anything else. In the moment he had been so convinced that he could do it; he had been certain that he would be able to ignore pangs of want, that he could soothe them by consuming fear and anger instead. He remembers the hurt that had flared in Despoina when she had found out about Breckin, how it had caused all the parts of him to go to war with each other—how he had wanted to gorge himself on her sorrow, but that heart of his only wanted to make things better.
He loved her, it was undeniable.
But he should have known—no, he had known—from the beginning that he was going to destroy her.
He should have let her go, should have not been selfish and let her find love elsewhere, with someone that wasn’t going to find such literal satisfaction from her grief.
Finding Beryl in the forest had never been his intention, because he had learned from their previous interaction that if anyone could loosen that already tenuous hold on his self-control, it was going to be her. In the aftermath he would wonder why it had never crossed his mind to walk away, why he had been so eager to step directly into the minefield. He shoulders the blame for it entirely, and there is no excuse for what transpired after; how he had dug his hole even deeper by seeking out two others, as if that would somehow assuage the guilt, or maybe it was his sick way of making sure none of this could come back as being misconstrued as Beryl's fault. It isn't her—it's him.
When he finds Despoina in her hellhound form, he does not shift to match her.
Instead he only stands, a wavering image of dark and shadow, his ruby-red eyes locking onto hers. “Despoina,” his voice surprisingly soft given the nature of him, and beneath the shadows of his skin he can feel tension begin to build.
She knows. He can see that she knows.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks her, feigning ignorance as if that would actually work, and refusing to reach and see what storm of emotions he has created in her chest.
He had made Despoina his, and let himself belong to her, even though he had known shadow was impossible to keep. He was going to slip through her grasp no matter how tightly she held and no matter what he promised her, but the way she made his heart swell inside of his chest, he could not imagine telling her anything else. In the moment he had been so convinced that he could do it; he had been certain that he would be able to ignore pangs of want, that he could soothe them by consuming fear and anger instead. He remembers the hurt that had flared in Despoina when she had found out about Breckin, how it had caused all the parts of him to go to war with each other—how he had wanted to gorge himself on her sorrow, but that heart of his only wanted to make things better.
He loved her, it was undeniable.
But he should have known—no, he had known—from the beginning that he was going to destroy her.
He should have let her go, should have not been selfish and let her find love elsewhere, with someone that wasn’t going to find such literal satisfaction from her grief.
Finding Beryl in the forest had never been his intention, because he had learned from their previous interaction that if anyone could loosen that already tenuous hold on his self-control, it was going to be her. In the aftermath he would wonder why it had never crossed his mind to walk away, why he had been so eager to step directly into the minefield. He shoulders the blame for it entirely, and there is no excuse for what transpired after; how he had dug his hole even deeper by seeking out two others, as if that would somehow assuage the guilt, or maybe it was his sick way of making sure none of this could come back as being misconstrued as Beryl's fault. It isn't her—it's him.
When he finds Despoina in her hellhound form, he does not shift to match her.
Instead he only stands, a wavering image of dark and shadow, his ruby-red eyes locking onto hers. “Despoina,” his voice surprisingly soft given the nature of him, and beneath the shadows of his skin he can feel tension begin to build.
She knows. He can see that she knows.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks her, feigning ignorance as if that would actually work, and refusing to reach and see what storm of emotions he has created in her chest.
T O R R Y N