ooc there’s a tl;dr at the bottom of the post! But first and foremost, because it’s crucial: this happens the morning after Margaery’s death. Margaery’s dead for three days, and Yikes it doesn’t take long for Haze to snap. Again, human au, because that’s necessary, too. trigger warning: abuse. If you’re sensitive to that sort of thing, I would skip the italics. Here we go!

Note: you can skip to the little ★ to start reading! The first few paragraphs are nonsensical gibberish.

Here’s the thing about art: ninety percent of the time, the outcome is different from the initial thought.

You can have this fantastic, marvelous idea that you can’t wait to set down on canvas. You might not have the exact logistics of getting from point A to point B, but you know what it’s going to look like. It’ll be a beautiful, gorgeous piece that people will put on Pinterest and Tumblr and will flock to buy because they’ll want it in their apartments and their living rooms. You can feel it, deep down, all the way to your bones. Motivation slips into your blood, and you won’t rest until your masterpiece is finished.

But there’s a catch: you’re human.

You might have dreams and you might have fantasies of all these fantastic, amazing things, but they’re blinding, and they leave you disappointed more often than not. It sucks, but there’s the tea. Art...art can be slippery, and sometimes creates that odd loophole of a different ending being even better than what you had originally planned. They say art embodies life, which...makes you think.

Hazel had believed it.

Hazel had, once upon a time, believed that anywhere else would be better than her home. She used to have grand delusions that white picket fences and Sunday cookouts lived peacefully and separately alongside tragedy and romance and everything that made the world interesting. She used to believe that art was the perfect way to capture life in all its beauty. Art was not meant to depict shadowed alleyways and dark rooms; art was meant to capture the sound of children’s laughter and the sunshine.

Because who wanted to look behind the curtains? Who wanted to see the scars and the tears and the blood spots on the kitchen tile? Why look there when you could look at what was on stage - at the magic?

It didn’t take long for the answer to surface: because there was only so much light the world could give.

Hazel had joined the Ascendants by sheer force of fear. She was on the run like a coward, and hid it with a cheery demeanor. Hid it with sunshine and light and innocence. She hid the scars, the blood, the tears, all of it - just so she could start over. So she could have her clean slate. So she could write her own script with her own white picket fences. So she could get rid of that scratching, low-simmering anger that always threatened her temper. Deus, did that anger give her a run for her money sometimes.

Like when it surfaced at the worst sort of times.

★ Hazel haphazardly tossed her paintbrush back in the water jug with a harsh sigh. It had been a day. A day since Margaery Mikaelson-Folie had died in childbirth. A day since one of her first friends, her mentor, her idol, had taken her last breath. Hazel scrubbed her hands against the denim of her faded overall shorts, palms hot with friction. A few days since Bastille found had more or less found out about her past.

Deus, she wanted a do-over. She wanted to start the week again, so when Monday rolled around, she wouldn’t feel Margaery’s hair slide through her fingers when she looked at her ashen, lifeless face. She wouldn’t feel the heat haloed around the other woman, calling for Hazel’s touch. She wouldn’t remember all the sweet things Margy said to her over time. Wouldn’t remember how she’d slowly replaced Mother in Hazel’s mind.

She wants a do-over so she never walks into that goddamn stable; so she doesn’t have an almost goddamn meltdown in front of their Seraph who’s a complete mess and thinks she doesn’t want to be near him because she can’t fucking touch people. Because she can’t handle how much and how overwhelming it is when he touches her, when she can’t smell anything but drugs and alcohol on him and how it shoves her back into her past and blinds her with it.

Fuck.

Hazel rubbed her knuckles against her eyelids, hating how she felt them come away wet with unshed tears. “This is stupid,” She told no one, petulant. It was stupid, wasn’t it? Crying couldn’t bring Margy back; crying couldn’t make the knot in her chest go away. Because Margy wasn’t going to pop up like Bastille did. She wasn’t going to come back to life, because the world was cruel and heartless and Hazel was a child. Crying wouldn’t make the rift between her and Bastille disappear, even if she couldn’t stand that she was beginning to associate him with fear and he probably knew.

“This is stupid,” Hazel insisted to no one, ignoring how her voice cracked and broke. She could feel her fingers curl into fists, feel her nails dig into her palms. Shaky, she slammed them against her side and stared at the ceiling, lower lip trembling. She wanted to scream, because she knew she was being dramatic and she didn’t care. She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood, but it didn’t change anything. Her mood was swinging wildly in every direction, and she felt like coming apart at the seams.

With a frustrated noise, Hazel stormed out of her room before she could tear her hair out. She needed a distraction; something to take her mind off of Margaery and the itching despair her brain was confusing for anger. Something to take her mind off the scar that was burning underneath her bandana, off of Suite’s absolute misery, and off of Bastille and all the horrible, shitty things he said to Margy. Because that was a whole other can of nasty she didn’t want to open.

The NPC’s she passed in the halls gave her odd looks; one tried to reach out with the beginnings of a concern, but Hazel waved them off, insisting that she was fine and brushing past them. She needed  distraction, she needed a distraction, she needed a distraction -

“Arion, veni!” The girl called as she reached the doors of the observatory. The Thoroughbred didn’t take long to show up, looking like he was expecting carrots or another treat. Hazel felt a pang of guilt; it wasn’t Arion’s fault Margy died, and it wasn’t his fault that she was so distraught over it. It wasn’t his fault that things got so twisted between her and Bastille. The girl mumbled something of an apology before vaulting onto his back, not caring that she had forgotten a saddle pad or a bridle. She’d ridden him bareback plenty of times before.

Hazel spurred Arion in the general direction of the ruins in the far corner of the territory, knowing people didn’t visit the titled “City of Stars” very often. It would be quiet, secluded. It might be far enough away so no one could hear her scream her heart to the sky. She buried her face in Arion’s mane, letting him stretch his neck into a full gallop. Hazel clung to his back, breathing in the smell of hazy and grass and letting the wind roar in her ears. All she could do was wind her fingers deeper into Arion’s mane, letting the pressure stim dull the turmoil in her nerves for a split second.

She felt Margaery’s death coming. She knew it was coming - she could have gotten there before everyone else and she could have helped her. But that didn’t matter either, because it was too late. Hazel was too late, and as usual, useless. Her only contribution was sunshine and smiles because she couldn’t fight, she couldn’t read, she couldn’t heal. She was a goddamn walking burden. A burden that had a dark past with darker secrets. A burden that was a trainwreck of a person.

It was all so endlessly frustrating, so infinitely aggravating. So goddamn impossible to get away from. She was trying so hard to move past it, to move forward instead of backwards. She’d even confessed part of her past to Suite, hoping that it would offer some sort of relief from the horrible fear of being looked down upon even more than she already was; hoping, praying, that it would allow her to finally start her life. But Hazel turned, ran into Bastille, breathed in that smell of alcohol and drugs and got her bandana ripped off and found it was all still too much.

”Just the golden girl, aren’t you? Just everybody’s favorite little present, all gift wrapped with a big, shiny bow to hide how much you hurt on the inside.”

Hazel jerked, eyes flying wide open, because that was the voice that had been prominent in her mind for the past few days. That was the voice that definitely wasn’t hers, the voice she had been ignoring. That was a lot louder than normal, and startled the fuck out of Hazel, who lost focus right as Arion cleared the creek that tumbled towards the coast.

With a startled shriek, Hazel felt her head slam into the ground.

“Oh, poor baby. Did someone fall off their chair?”

Hazel sat up, tears in her eyes and pain blooming in the back of her skull. She blinked, fuzzy vision focusing on the woman crouched in front of her and lower lip puckering as she nodded. The woman, with her tan skin and dark eyes and red checkered apron, frowned.

And Hazel’s heart stopped.

Her arms, skinny and smooth, reached out for her Mother’s support, while Hazel yelled and screamed at herself to stop, to get up and run, because what was about to go down would haunt her for the rest of her life. Didn’t she see the red webbing Mother’s eyes? Couldn’t she smell the foreign, bitter smell that was wafting off her clothes? Clearly not, because the confusion was a sharp, electric shock to the brain when Mother’s lips, flattened to a thin line, didn’t move and neither did she.

“Then get up. You’re six, I shouldn’t have to pick you up off the floor when you get clumsy.” Mother grunted, standing up on those stupid red pumps and walking back across the kitchen.

“But it hurts,” Young Hazel whined.

Mother leveled a glare at her from the sink. “Suck it up, Hazel. You’re not a baby. This is what you get for standing up in your seat when you shouldn’t have. Quit whining.” Hazel felt herself recoil, but slowly and surely drew herself back into her seat at the table, where her dinner sat, cold and mushy on the paper plate.

”It’s cold,” Hazel announced, frowning at the food and poking at it with her fork. The slam of cutlery against glassware made her jump.

“Goddammit, Hazel.” Mother snapped, voice like fire. “That’s what you fucking get when you let it sit for too long. Maybe if you hadn’t been standing up like an idiot, then you wouldn’t have fallen, and then your food wouldn’t be cold.”

Hazel felt tears well in her eyes as she obediently scooped the cold food into her mouth. Mother was never that mean.

From inside the instant replay, Hazel dropped her head back, trying to ignore the shaking that was starting in her fingers as she squeezed her eyes shut. If only she could go back and tell herself that wasn’t even the worst of it. That wasn’t even the half of it. If only she waited until next week, when she spilled her milk on the floor…

“Yeah, you had it so hard, didn’t you, golden girl?”

Hazel’s eyes snapped open.

She wasn’t at the kitchen table anymore. She sat above a frothing white abyss, the ceiling made of nothing. Hazel would have found it quite beautiful, actually, had she not been so deep in her own head and itching with the feeling of someone watching her.

”Always afraid that you wouldn’t get your next meal. So terrified that Mommy would come back early.” The voice mocked in her ear, sugar sweet and feminine. Hazel whipped her head to the right, and caught the wisps of dark, chocolate curls and tan skin before it vanished in a puff of smoke.

The voice spoke again, disemboded and echoing: “So angry, so self-righteous, aren’t you, Hazel?” It practically purred. Hazel could feel her pulse beat hard and fast, the her comprehension whirling and trying to recalibrate itself. This voice wasn’t being very fucking nice, whoever they were, and it was bugging Hazel that they were in her head.

“Get out of my head,” Hazel told it, testing the waters. The voice laughed, high and loud. Hazel turned, searching; the thick sweep of long lashes curled over cold, dark eyes. Freckles. Smoke.

“Sweetheart, I am your head,” It cooed. “Doesn’t matter, though; you wouldn’t have figured that out for months. Or until that cute little boy toy of yours - what’s his name? Bastille, yes, that’s it - told you, at least. That boy knows things.” Hazel blanched, too much of that incorrect and confusing, because what the fuck -

“Don’t think too hard, lovley. You’ll hurt yourself. Anyway,” Hazel scrubbed her fingers over her face; why did this girl sound like she was her age? “You can credit those nightmares and that one panic attack to me, by the way. Artists deserve credit.”

Hazel frowned. “What nightmares?” She asked warily. She hadn’t had any nightmares recently. Aside from the ones she was anticipating tonght over Margaery, anyway.

“Did I not send those? My bad. Must be the bad wifi signal. I’ll make sure those get delivered soon.” The voice assured. Hazel’s heart and stomach sank to the floor. “Until then, a little more fun seems to be in order.” The girl’s voice was wicked, turning the dread in Hazel’s stomach to cold, hard, fear.

“Wait - wait, what? Who are you? Hold on -” Hazel flung herself to her feet, whirling in every direction, searching for the girl.

“Poor Hazel; always so confused, so at odds with yourself. So torn up inside, so tired of hiding things away from people but still wanting comfort and protection like a weak little bitch.” The girl taunted, voice dripping with satisfaction. Something told Hazel this girl could feel how her insides were doused with ice and fire. This girl could tell that Hazel was about to get angry, and Hazel was fucking terrified to find out how that was going to go.

“You’ve been hiding your emotions for so long - your jealousy, your anger, your concern - that this freedom is driving you crazy. Sometimes you wish you were back in that house, in that room, with your deadbolt and one tiny window, just so you could have a moment of silence.” She sneered.

“Stop it!” Hazel cried. “That’s not true!”

“Isn’t it? You’re tired of feeling, Hazel. You’re exhausted. You want it all to go away, you just want it to be quiet for one split second so you can collect yourself, yeah? Sometimes you wish you never made friends here because you know they’re the root of all your problems.” Her voice was growing, louder and louder; Hazel slapped her hands over her ears, trying to block it all out.

“No! My friends have nothing to do with my issues!” She yelled.

“Oh, yes they do.” The girl countered. “That woman you seemed to care for so much? You couldn’t save her. You just pushed her further towards the edge. That cute boy with the blue eyes? Trouble. Already spiraling right after Mommy: using alcohol and drugs to cope. Your sorry ass is probably the reason, but I can’t speak for him. You want to help him because he’s terrifying you, but you can’t, and you know it.” Hazel gritted her teeth. “Just admit it, Hazel, you don’t want to be here! Admit that it was easier at home!”

Hazel could hear the grin in the other girl’s voice, and she didn’t care. She could hardly feel anything other than the rising tide of red surging behind her eyes. She couldn’t save Margy, she couldn’t even fucking read the letter she wrote (partially because she still couldn’t read English and partially because she already lost it), she couldn’t comfort Suite - so thank god Cooper took over that task - and she definitely couldn’t save Bastille; it was all so fucking frustrating and she was so sick of being weak and tired -

“THAT HOUSE ISN’T MY HOME!” Hazel finally screamed, falling to her knees and crumpling over, fingers curling into her hair and tears burning her eyes.

Everything fell deathly silent. And then, ever so softly: “No?”

Then there was a blinding flash of light. And Hazel felt sunlight on her skin.

She cracked her eyes open, and found short, chubby arms and tiny hands grabbing at a bubble before it popped in her face. Despair coursed through her system, because that was the last one…

“Hazel! Sweetie, over here! Look!” Hazel jerked around, squinting against the sun and peering across the green lawn, and up the porch steps to the woman with tan skin and straight black hair. Mother waved a bubble wand, filled with solution. Childish laugheter pealed out of Hazel as she ran for the new bubbles, clapping tiny hands to catch them all.

Hazel felt her throat clog as her anger receded. She remembered this. She was...what, three? Four? Young enough to still be in diapers. Didn’t matter. She could feel the grass tickle her toes and the sun on her face. She could hear Mother’s fond laugh, her gentle gasps of “Look! There’s one!” Hazel wanted to turn away from this bittersweet scene, knowing that it was too far in the past. She wanted the tears to dry up; she wanted the feel of safety and warmth; she wanted...she wanted her Mother…

Then the scene flickered; crackled with static and froze, like the connection went haywire.

Suddenly yelling was filling her ears and nails were digging into her arm, the sour smell of alcohol clogging her nose and throat and it was so much, there was so much - she was crying, trying to stifle sobs through bleary eyes as her mother dragged her to the closet, and fuck, Hazel was going to get whiplash -

“You rotten, good for nothing waste of fucking space -” Mother was snarling, fumbling with the closet doorknob while Hazel shook and whimpered, vehemently shaking her head because not the closet, not the closet; it was smaller than her room and the bathroom and was awful to sleep in -

But it didn’t matter what Hazel wanted - she’d learn that soon enough - because her bloody palms were already hitting the back wall of the closet as she tripped over the supplies, earning at least four new bruises, and the lock was clicking behind her and it was just pitch black -

Hazel flung herself upwards with a shrill cry, head pounding where it slammed against the ground and all other points of contact sore and throbbing. Everything hurt, her stomach was rolling with nausea, and she couldn’t open her eyes but she could still feel Mother’s nails digging into her skin, could still feel the jagged cuts in her palm as she worked herself into another panic attack. Her heartbeat skyrocketed, breath coming in short gasps like the oxygen wasn’t getting to her lungs as she curled over, pressing her head to the cool earth as the sun beat down on her back, shaking like she couldn’t get warm.

Fuck, fuck - she didn’t even bother to worry that this was in broad daylight, that people might just find her a fucking mess. She couldn’t get the images out of her head; couldn’t get the feeling of betrayal out of her system - couldn’t get the confusing mess of who the hell that girl was and why she had control over Hazel’s memories and mind like that.

Arion stood not far off, refusing to leave but not quite worried enough to stay in one spot.

tl;dr this is a long one, but please don’t read the whole thing? Oh my god? Anyway, Hazel takes off on Arion and falls off because she wasn’t paying attention (smh) and blacks out. She meets one of her souls, (but doesn’t realize it) finds out she’s an absolute bitch, and experiences several different flashbacks. The only important one is the one that reveals her mother wasn’t always abusive! Now she’s practically in the middle of the territory having a breakdown. 3,565 words!

★ — hazel — "speech" — seven months — the ascendants — tags — ★

The strange thing about the regression fallacy was that it was so readily obvious and yet so easy to fall into. He knew that logically, life must regress towards the mean. Extreme could not follow extreme over and over and over. At some point, it all had to crash back towards the center, slipping away from extremity; at some point, the apathy must give way to something else. Bastille had convinced himself that something had to trigger it -- that he couldn't be fixed just because. He'd venture too far off course. He'd seen tragedy and barely batted an eye. No, something more than just Fate had to combat the utter chill in his souls, and there was his fallacy.

Maybe he could have known that it would start with Hazel, but he wasn't anticipating this. The sudden flicker of awareness in the back of his thoughts, the draw that ensnared him and reeled him in -- panic and distress so palpable that he could sense from the middle of the Observatory. He had always had an innate radar for those suffering -- those who wanted to give something, wanted to make it all go away, his clientele -- but this was... different. Something about this was different, pulling on him in a way he couldn't quite place, and he followed it instinctively, abandoning his task without second thought. There was something there, eating away at him as he tracked the flaring waves of emotion, tinges of something familiar and golden--

The whisper of divinity.

He realized who it had to be the second that particular signature registered, and then he was running, chasing the source like he was following a thread of nasty sensations; the closer he got the thicker it was, her aura radiating distressed signals so vividly that he wondered how he hadn't realized before. Who else had a range that strong or clear? Hazel had the strongest aura he'd ever seen, and he should have known.

Could he taste the panic on his tongue as he got closer and closer? It was hard to say. Her signals were like a blanket, curling over his skin and heating it with flames, and there was something -- something not right. Could he feel it, though? The panic and desperation and wild flicker of fear and worry in his gut at the prospect of her not being okay? He could feel something. A turbulence, the frantic drum of his heartbeat, the tinges of wrong wrong wrong. The certainty that he had to get to her and get to her now. There was nothing in his system to help him get to that sensation and yet.

And yet.

He found them just when he thought he was going to lose patience, the tether yanking at him with increased urgency getting unbearable. His gaze fell on Hazel, blind to everyone else, and her aura was so bright, so radiant, ingiting with her terror and panic; he couldn't look away from her as for a beat he forgot how to breathe, the impact of her aura and that pull so much up close. The panic was copper of his tongue, making his throat constrict and burn, all of her distress shifting through him so quickly that it was briefly nauseauting. He had to get to her but--

But there was Suiteheart, in his fucking way, and his attention fixed instantly on the way she reached for Hazel, the way she felt so comfortable touching her, the way she thought she had a right to. Something surged through him so violently that he stumbled a step in the face of it. It was vicious and wild and angry, a primal desire to rip her throat out because here she was touching what was his and being allowed and she was in his way, was soothing Hazel when that was the one thing he had and could do, was-- was-- a threat and he wanted her dead.

The tangent thoughts sidelined him, the sudden crisp clarity of emotions withering in his chest, and belated he realized that it could only be Pollutedsoul but the wild panic and desperation to get to Hazel and get her out of his way was thick and overwhelming, too much to ignore in the face of Hazel's distress.

"Get out of my way," he said, dismissive, low as he barely even spared Suite a fucking glance. He was already zeroed in on Hazel once more, that raging storm of emotion that surrounded her and seeped into his skin and screamed at him to fix it fix it fix it just as loudly as something dark chanted that she was mine mine mine and he crashed into her without even thinking about it.

She doesn't want you to touch her, logic might have argued, but Bastille's arms were around her before any concern could register and he was pulling her closer, inhaling vanilla gold honey and feeling that chaos consume him even more readily with her skin setting his on fire.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," he breathed steadily, swallowing against the vibrant emotions clamoring through his blood as he tried to focus on keeping himself calm, on choking back the panic and the desperation and the possessiveness and not letting her emotions sweep him up into the fray. "It's okay, Hazel, you're okay, you're okay, find my heartbeat, find my heartbeat, c’mon, Haze--"

Except that his heartbeat was too quick and there was nothing to pace herself against and the acric tang of panic was stronger now and he couldn't focus on anything other than the fact that he had to calm her down because if he couldn't-- if he couldn't he'd ruined everything and she was gone and Suite would do it-- And Suite was allowed to touch and possibly could help her and oh, there was fresh panic, a wave of sensation crashing through his systems and derailing any grasp of control that he had, his own emotions deciding to come back online in vicious bursts just in time for him to react to Hazel's.

"You're okay," he breathed, hoarse, frantically pushing at her thoughts, struggling to ensnare that panicked sensation and the terror and to soothe it, to pull it away from her, to coax it to his bidding -- something, anything he could do to make it stop because he had to, he had to help, he had to make it all go away or else he would lose her and he couldn't lose her--

His grip tightened as he pulled, yanking at her emotions and aura with a sense of vicious desperation, yanking and pulling the panic towards himself beacuse the manipulation should be working and it wasn't and the more she panicked the more desperate he got because she was screaming--

And suddenly his skin was on fire, flames shooting down his spine as something golden and radiant burst through his thoughts wildly, infecting everything, leaking into his veins. Mentally, Bastille recoiled, startled, skittering away from her thoughts and emotions but her panic was still there, humming under his skin, and he exhaled into her hair shakily as he choked out, "Fuck."

[ have some scattered chaos and a good ol bond ]

Hazel’s head was pounding.

Everything felt fuzzy and out of focus; she was underwater, and her brain had turned the volume down too far. Her ears were ringing. There was grit in her mouth. Her tailbone felt bruised and sore. She tried to crack her eyes open and light seared her retinas, making her head throb under her fingers. Blood bubbled on her lip.

But it was all weak, all faded with the sensation of nails on her arms and chemicals in her nose and blood on her hands - she couldn’t focus, couldn’t pull herself out of it, couldn’t even tell if what was going on was real or not or if she was still in that mindscape. And it was that - the not being able to draw the line between fiction and nonfiction - that terrified her. Nothing felt real; the tufts of grass she clutched between her fingers were just glass shards and cleaning supplies from the closet, the smell of dirt underneath her nose sharp and acrid with chemicals.

It hurt - it all hurt so much, and Hazel sobbed those words into the ground, trembling and shaking because fuck, she could feel the blood drip down her wrists; could feel the darkness press further and further down on her chest, making her gasp like she couldn’t get oxygen into her system. It all felt familiar, a phantom haunt, a repeat of her last panic attack: the same inability to breathe, the same sheer terror coursing through her veins. But there was no corner to press herself into, no wall to hold her up; so she curled into a ball, rocking back and forth and scratching her nails uselessly at her scalp and crying like the pathetic, weak, defenseless little girl she was.

Hazel wasn’t aware of the footsteps pounding against the earth as they neared. She felt it through the earth, felt it tremble under her forearms and her knees, but she didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t have the brain space to. She could only focus, could only spiral further into chemicals and blood and yelling and nails and fear -

Then there was warmth - a burning, searing, sweltering heat that brushed her skin. Brushed her hand. A crackle of static between the two. A heartbeat of time.

Then Hazel was flying back with a shrill shriek, heart slamming against her ribs and eyes wild and unfocused. Fire burned in her hand, scorching and unexpected and - “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me - I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me, please, it hurts so much -“ The light in her eyes hurt, it hurt so much, green and blue and brown blurring together and assaulting her senses and she couldn’t get her bearings. She tried, chest heaving and tears smeared across her face, eyes finding Shay and shaking her head as guilt poured, heavy and cold as fucking ice down her back, thoughts a jumbled mess of I couldn’t save Margaery and now Shay is suffering and I can’t help her either and she’s still trying to help me and is this even real or am I still dreaming -

Hazel shook her head vehemently - violently - crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t do it - I can’t help, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -“ as she confused memory for reality, some sick twisted thing in her spinning it all on a fork and she couldn’t fucking take it so she curled back in on herself, head screaming and body aching and chest heaving.

She felt bad; felt distressed that Shay couldn’t help her and it was Hazel’s fault. It was her fault because she couldn’t fucking calm down, couldn’t pull it apart and separate it like normal and Deus, she really was weak and useless.

Suddenly a heavier presence loomed over her, shadow blocking the sun and aura cluttering her already scattered thoughts. It was heavy, dark, pulsing and frothing, but it didn’t feel evil. It was just heavy, just pressing down, and Hazel gasped for breath, trying to suck down air before she passed out.

Sound filtered through her seemingly water-clogged ears: a voice, a deep timbre that rumbled. It was clearer than Shay’s voice, more startling against the backdrop of fucking everything else, and Hazel almost looked up. Almost.

But then that heavy weight lowered and heat crackled, almost familiar from a time that seemed like years ago; and for a split second, it was comfortable, like a campfire - then it wasn’t, and arms were pulling her close, forcing her into someone’s lap and the heat burst into full fledged sparks and flames, dancing and branding her skin, and Hazel screamed.

If it was hard to breathe before, it was near impossible now, the crushing proximity suffocating her and lighting everything on fire like the kitchen knives that dug into her skin and - fuck, she had to get away, needed to breathe, she couldn’t breathe -

“C-can’t breathe,” She hiccuped, muffled, “I can’t breathe, please - please don’t hurt me anymore, I’m sorry -“ Hazel was struggling, squirming, trying to get free, but everything hurt and her body was exhausted and she wasn’t fucking strong enough.

Bastille was talking; Hazel could feel it against her cheek, where his heartbeat was skittering and it was supposed to be soothing, supposed to be comforting, but it was just suffocating and all-encompassing. She couldn’t focus on it, not while there was something pressing against her mind, tugging and pulling and yanking like it was the siege of Troy and someone was trying to break her walls and she was panicking because of it. She was terrified it was that girl from the mindscape, that she wanted complete and total access and Hazel was exhausted and still couldn’t tell fiction from reality but she was not about to hand over her brain to a bitch ghost. She sobbed, shrieking again, feeling the panic curl against her spine. She felt the rushing fear, the horror of being at something else’s mercy so objectively fucking terrorizing and she was pushing back, physically and mentally, refusing, resisting -

Then...a fracture. A crack.

“No, no - no -“ Hazel sobbed, desperate, Bastille’s comforts filtering out because everything burned and the wall was breaking and she was so tired and she couldn’t hold it -

When it crumbled, sensation flooded every nerve: fresh fire rolled through her system, igniting. Something ancient and dark spilled down her spine, shocking and icy and Hazel felt the persistence skitter away, shocked and startled and Hazel was frozen. Paralyzed and overwhelmed and exhausted and shaking.

Then she sucked in a breath when Bastille exhaled against the top of her hair, jerking involuntarily. Smoke and pine snagged against her senses, familiar and comforting and cracking like a whip across her brain.

Hazel tipped her head back, cracking open miserable golden optics to look at Bastille’s panicked, shaken expression, feeling its mirror image buzz in her veins.

Right back where they started.

Hazel swallowed against her dry throat, tasting blood on her lips and squeezing her eyes shut, tears dripping down her cheeks like rain. Fingers curling into his shirt, she melted into him, tucking her forehead and curve of her nose against his neck, mind too exhausted to panic at the warmth any more.

The girl in her mindscape had been right, after all: she was weak and useless and tired. Just a burden. She was the one product great for everything until she wasn’t, and people realized her lack of worth. She was flawed and broken and now everyone knew. Everyone knew she wasn’t worth fucking anything.

She couldn’t save Margaery. She couldn’t comfort Shay - she couldn’t even let Shay comfort her. Now Bastille knew about her scar and he was in her head and he would find everything out sooner or later and would force her out; would cast her far from the Ascendants because she was a weakness...just a liability.

Hazel shook, silent sobs slipping out as muffled gasps as she slumped, hoarsely whispering: “I’m sorry,” She cried. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry -“

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★

The pounding of his heartbeat, aligning with hers for a split second before it skipped a beat and he forgot how to breathe, staring back at her rigidly as she looked at him. As honey melted into his bloodstream and he felt that golden warmth sink into his skin and everything hit him at once. The rush of her emotions sweeping through him, even more clearly than he picked out of her aura -- panic and fear and shock and pain and worthless worthless worthless and an exhaustion so heavy it weighed on his bones; the crackling wire of tension between them as something slotted into place; her eyes so close, looking right at him, straight through him. It was her, he realized, in that moment. Honey and cinnamon and vanilla, golden radiance, the echo of something warm filtering through the mist -- he remembered it now, now that he could feel her so vibrantly, remembered her presence acutely in that clearing, cutting strange through the darkness. He remembered her.

Another beat before he exhaled again, releasing the breath he'd been holding, and the panic and dread hit a beat later. Fuck -- he had no idea what he had just done but he'd done something and fuck, fuck, fuck. He wasn't supposed to touch her, let alone get any where near her fucking thoughts, and now he'd gone and-- and-- and done something, but maybe he should have just left it alone. Maybe he should have let Suite calm her down. Fucking hell, he knew how this went: she snapped out of it now that the worst of the tremors seemed to stop and she got angry and yelled and left him, again. The apology was already on the tip of his tongue as he braced himself for the heat of her anger.

And it never came. Just as his pulse accelerated too much for him to stand, as he was about to push her away himself and apologize and bolt, she was slumping forward. The warmth of her breath on his neck jolted him, and for a moment he was frozen, at a loss for what to do. He was so used to feeling dread and regret around Hazel, like he should be prepared for more fury and rejection, that he didn't know what to do with... this. The eerie stillness of her calm in the wake of the panic. Her staying. The peculiar lack of people yelling at him, for fucking once. God, he was so certain he'd fucked up again, and yet.

His grip around her relaxed, and he swallowed as he hesitantly shifted slightly. The warmth of her skin was so much and he felt like he should be releasing her, easing away, acknowledging that she wouldn't want him to be touching her -- but it was so warm and it soothed something panicked and chaotic in his chest and he didn't have it in him to let go, particularly not when he felt her start to shake slightly, felt the pang of her sorrow in the back of his throat.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, don't-- it's okay. Don't apologize," he found himself saying, quieter, uncertain if the aching was his own or feedback from her end of... whatever he'd forged between them. He swallowed, at a loss of how she was apologizing when he'd been the one to fuck up, here, and added, "You're safe. You're safe here. It's okay." Wasn't she? Something ate at him, insisting that maybe she wasn't if he was here, but he swallowed the doubt swirling in his thoughts and mumbled into her hair, "You're perfect, you're okay." He didn't seem to notice what he'd said.

Hazel had quieted for the most part, breath coming in little shuddering gasps that she attempted to muffle against her lip. Deus, that had been so much worse than the last; this actually left her drained - bone dry mentally, physically, and emotionally. The exhaustion seemed to press her further into the ground, coaxing with a gentle murmur of sleep, Hazel. Sleep.

But she didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to stay awake so she would remember the warmth pressed against her, the comfort. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat that she could count, track. The rise and fall of his chest. The rumble of his voice that she felt tickle her skin, making her curl her trembling fists tighter into his shirt as if she could hold him there. He felt so real, so alive. It was like sitting in front of a camp fire, the heat coloring her cheeks pink and spreading warmth to tingle in her fingertips.

There was still that open gateway in her mind, threading emotions that didn’t make sense into her nervous system: anticipation, anxiety - sudden ease. Ease that she could physically feel roll off his shoulders as he relaxed, loosening his grip. And she was out of it just enough, hovering just outside of conscious, to feel the fear and confusion melt into the fog shrouding her mind. It was all a warm glow, the wisp of a tether that tied her to the earth and held her there. She was afraid that if she let go, she’d pass out completely, and be plunged back into stone cold isolation she so cruelly enforced upon herself.

Because Hazel was aware of how she usually reacted to touch. She knew that her nerves were on fire and she knew that logically, she should be shoving out of his arms right now. But everything about him was keeping her from slipping into that mindscape; from falling asleep and coming face to face with those nightmares she had been so dutifully promised. Hazel took in breath after hiccuping breath, the scent of pine and smoke strongest against his neck and shirt, her insistent pressing close to him a silent please don’t let me fall asleep - please don’t let me close my eyes.

If she closed her eyes, the ache in her bones and throb in her head would cease, yes. But then images, bloody, screaming, horrifying images would infect her dreams, and she’d fling herself awake, shaking and screaming like she had so pathetically a few moments ago. And it was that fear that kept her awake; that need to not be pathetic and dependent that would burn hot in her chest.

Hazel turned her head, letting him murmur things into her hair that sounded like water running over pebbles. “You’re perfect,” filtered in amongst the shroud of things, and shakily, unconsciously, Hazel echoed it, mumbling “Perfectus es,” At him. She kept her eyes on her knees, though they grew blurry as her vision unfocused and refocused. She wanted to squeeze them shut, knowing that if she did, everything wouldn’t be quite so bright. But stubbornly, she refused.

A different voice - higher, sweeter - melted through the warbled sound around her, and it took everything Hazel had to latch on to it, to translate it into something she could understand. Shay, she realized belatedly. Asking something. Something about her - to her?

“Water,” Hazel croaked, near feverish. “Head hurts.” Even talking was exhausting. The concept of standing and walking back to the observatory was far too much to comprehend, so she turned her head back against Bastille, concentrating on counting the number of times his heartbeat pressed up against his chest.

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★

Suite's voice cut through the thrum of warmth and the clutter of his thoughts, and he stilled slightly, fingers careful where they rested against Hazel's back. He swallowed, feeling like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't -- which, well, he had. He shouldn't be touching her. Shouldn't be sitting here, a thread of connection linking their thoughts, shouldn't have forced his way into her mind. The sudden reminder of Suite's presence made him flush, skin heating up with more than just the proximity and the rush in his veins, but he didn't move. Hazel was burrowing into him, readily accepting his touch and seeking more of it, and he didn't have it in him to let her go. The most contact he'd gotten in weeks was from Rad, and it was always grudging and frequently short-lived before she got tired of him and kicked him out.

It was rarely like this, warm and golden and comfortable in an odd way. Perfectus es, she murmured into his collar, and there was something else there -- a faint, lilting murmur. The brush of awareness; he was generally rather receptive to thoughts, but it was different when he was tied to her. Whispers brushed along his consciousness and he could practically hear her murmuring in his ear not to let her fall asleep. It sent a chill down his spine, and his grip tightened slightly, chasing the warmth and the softness of her breath against his shirt.

As she spoke once more, louder, it dawned on him all at once that there had been more than the panic attack. His gaze flickered to Arion, paces away, and he swallowed as copper filtered through his senses. Fuck. What was he thinking? He should have gotten her up sooner, before she could grow so drowsy, and Bast murmured a swear into her hair as he shifted slightly. Slid one arm free, slowly, carefully, and shifted his weight so that he could hook it under her curled knees. "Easy," he murmured, absent minded, and pushed himself up slowly, careful not to spook her or jostle her too hard. "Let's get you to Rin, okay? We can get you water there." His gaze flickered to Suite, and then he was off, Arion trotting along after him as he carried Hazel slowly back, trying his best to ignore the thrumming of their bond in the background.