Hazel didn’t deserve the people she had in her life.

For the past couple days, she’d kept to herself — staying in either her room or Arion’s stall. It wasn’t so much wanted isolation as it was necessary; the heavy emotions that plagued her every waking moment triggered unwanted tremors and ruptured rock. When she was outside, it resulted in mysterious precious stones of different color. Most of the time they were embedded in bedrock, surfacing in broken chunks of glinting gems.

Hazel had chalked it up to an emotion-based power, which...sucked, quite frankly. Every time Titanium leered at her cowardice or poked fun at her past, the earth trembled. Fissures split the dirt and fractured like ice. Anger brought on rubies of rich, blood red, while terror brought citrines the color of orange juice. Titanium constantly murmured the names of gems when Hazel’s focus wavered.

What was most stressing was the concept of hurting someone. Any stimulation that pushed her past the breaking point could result in far more than cracks in the earth and colored rocks. So she’d avoided most everyone — Bastille especially. The bond was already a transaction of emotion, and Hazel didn’t really need a landslide of extra feelings. Not to mention Titanium seemed to grow more present whenever she was near him, a constant stream of nonsensical flirtations slipping into Hazel’s brain.

On her third day of successfully avoiding most of the clan, Suiteheart had discovered her in the stables. With her was a ukulele — a new, shiny, untouched ukulele. It wasn’t worn and smooth to the touch, but apparently, it was...hers? Suite had gone and paid a merchant to get Hazel her own ukulele. Which she did not deserve.

For the first twenty minutes, Hazel had undoubtedly cried, smiling through tears for...the first time. She’d handled the instrument reverently, trying not to break it. The strings were taut and wiry with lack of use — it felt like too much pressure could easily snap them. They were as delicate as the string that attached her to the earth. The ground had popped and rolled, jolting under her wave of gratitude and disbelief. No gemstones appeared through the floor, but she didn’t think much of it. Even Titanium was silent.

Now the girl sat against the walls of the bunker, golden sharpie tucked behind her ear as she played with the strings of the ukulele. Doodles and designs were half drawn on the mahogany wood, unfinished. Her hand had started to cramp so she resorted to picking out notes and songs that Suite taught her. She hummed along, toes wiggling against the grass and curls bouncing with the nod of her head. Her mood had improved drastically over the, surfacing in the form of pebbled of fools gold and fractured topaz gems.

Voice raspy and louder than when she usually practiced, she sang along to the twang of her instrument: “Oh, Saturday sun — I met someone out on the west coast. I gotta get back, can’t let this go.” Past worries melted under the sun as she cradled her newest treasure to her chest, fingers rhythmically striking the chords. It was almost a substitute for art, in a sense, giving her that happy high she needed so badly. Forget her anxiety, forget her past and forget Titanium. She could stay like this forever, under the afternoon sun with the wind brushing against her skin like nothing else mattered.

“Oh, Saturday sun — I met someone. Don’t care what it costs, no ray of sunlight’s ever lost.”

ooc what’s that? In need of a human au? good, me too

[b]BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE FLAMES

Everything was slipping and shifting. He could feel Hazel's instability through their bond, the subtle thread of something jagged and misaligned, and worse yet could could feel his own souls falling out of alignment. The grips of withdrawal had gotten looser, less pressing, only coming in waves that he felt like he could now predict -- but a return to normalcy for Bastille was a return to chaos, to a loss of control. He needed his apathy to survive, and every day it slid away from him, he felt a resentment grow. Something bitter, something whispering he should never have stayed here, never have let them get to him. Should leave, tomorrow. Let Suiteheart take care of them, let her sink her nails into everyone.

It was jarring, feeling the blimps and bits of his memories surfacing. In the past few days, he felt his souls' lives blur into his own too easily. He looked at Cooper, sick and coughing, and was met with a rush of memories of illness and death; he glanced up at the sky in the middle of the day and recalled the soft blue of the plains, remembered making small talk with Libby about the weather, the sky; met someone's gaze for a moment too long and could feel the press of skin against his, the aftertaste of vodka at the back of his throat. More than just sensations, however, he was finding it easier to remember his childhoods, was reminded quicker of family from the past, found himself stopping before he mentioned something no one would understand. Yesterday he'd started to ask someone to run to the gorge for him and stopped himself short, a moment too late to avoid the confused look.

It didn't matter, though. He didn't have time to worry about it, and therefore he carried on, pretending everything was fine. He gave Hazel her space and reminded himself that he needed to keep his distance, anyway. That she would find him if she wanted. That she didn't need him, and he didn't -- couldn't need her. He was looking for Octavia, really, when he felt the subtle pull of golden thread going taunt between them, drawing him in harder. Of course she was in the bunker. He should have anticipated that, should have sensed her, but everything was too cluttered to keep track.

Her voice was beautiful, and Bastille slowed his pace as he stepped into the bunker, gaze seeking her out immediately. There was a moment where he looked at her, taking in the subtle peace radiating from her, and felt the murmur of her music calm something in him. And then his gaze dropped to the ukulele she held, and everything went quiet. He could feel the whitenoise, the stillness, the split second as it clicked in his thoughts and everything registered. And then it was there, vicious and nasty, the sudden press of something dark that screamed for blood. Bastille barely even moved, his nails digging into his palms sharply, fighting back the uncontrollable urge to smash the fucking thing over her head.

And then he turned and left, didn't stop moving until he could lock himself in his room and dig his nails into his arms until the rolling flare of Pollie's anger subsided, melted back into the mess of emotions warring for control.

[B]ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — [color=#e2e2e2]TAGS — [color=#e2e2e2]MOODBOARD — [color=#e2e2e2]PLAYLIST

Hazel’s fingers danced against the wires, pressing them into the fret board with practiced pressure, giddy from her excitement. She wasn’t as skilled as Suite was, so her fingers slipped and strayed to the wrong strings every now and again and she’d have to start over. It didn’t really bug her, though; not like it should. The music itself was plenty enough to wash over her anxieties, happy to play wherever her fingers took her.

“So tired of sleepin’ alone,” her voice cracked, “so tired of eatin’ alone. I need to ask her what’s goin’ on — are we goin’ strong?” Hazel felt her skin flush as she dropped the legato, this certain verse of the song more speaking than singing. It was odd; she felt far more comfortable singing than she did speaking lyrics. Perhaps it was the separation that music provided, letting her find difference between the world of sound and reality.

Hazel had pulled the ukulele tight to her body again, watching her fingers on the frets — a rookie move — when a young voice interrupted her. Golden optics shot up, falling on an unfamiliar boy. She smiled automatically, though she pulled her legs closer to her chest, her fear of hurting him accidentally flaring at the base of her spine. She ignored the splinter of rock underneath her hand, trying not to frighten the boy off.

“Salve, hospes, paras. Hello, stranger.” The Latin was an accidental slip of tongue, something prone to happen when she was nervous. “Yes, I’m the one making music,” She echoed, suddenly aware that she might be bothering others. “Apologies if I’m being too loud. Suite just got this for me, and I haven’t set it down since then.” Hazel smiled sheepishly, rubbing the tips of her fingers that had long since grown numb. “I should probably find something else to do before I play my fingers off. Anyway...I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Hazel. Who’re you?” She was jumping all over the place with her wording, stumbling over introductions and rambling excitement.

She pressed herself against the bunker wall once more, fingers falling back to the strings despite what she had just said. Absently fiddling with random notes, Hazel looked the other up and down. He looked young — Hazel wondered if he joined on his own, or if he had siblings. Maybe a mother. Perhaps Margy and Suite had already taken him under their wing. Goodness, had she really shoved herself that far into the shadows?

Then a line pulled, stretched tight; drew her attention to the side, where Bastille stood, seemingly headed to the bunker. But he wasn’t moving — just standing, just staring. It was odd; she hadn’t seen much of him. She could feel him trying to keep his distance, could feel the itch under her skin grow the more he seemingly avoided her. He was doing it on purpose, as upsetting as that was, and she’d forgotten that their link was more than just a locator.

Now they had run into each other again, and Hazel braced herself, ready for the rush of everything and then the whiplash of nothing that would race across their bond. Her fingers stilled as her gaze locked on his, and then it was silent. Static.

She saw the realization in his eyes — felt her heart drop as she followed his train of thought, knowing exactly where it was going — and closed her fingers tight around the neck of her ukulele. Whether it was out of reflex or defiance, she didn’t know or have time to think about. Because something primal slammed into her mind, deep and bloodthirsty and animalistic. The earth fractured under her other hand as darkness clouded their bond, obscured her thoughts and eroded her mood.

Briefly, vaguely, Hazel felt the memory of them pressed against the stall doors resurface; of his gravelly, miserable voice as he confessed to the struggle of holding Pollie back whenever he was faced with the concept of losing her. Of the anger, the lack of focus, the challenge between knowing what was him and what wasn’t. Now Hazel could feel exactly what he had described, and it was suffocating. Consuming, drowning her in this rage —

Then it was gone, dissipating as Bastille promptly turned on his heel and left. Hazel wasn’t aware that she’d been stone still the entire time, gaze locked and fist white-knuckling the neck of her instrument in an effort to find something to ground her. Never mind the earth that had split further, fracturing from the focal point of her hand. But the moment he broke eye contact the tension in her spine melted and she could breathe again.

Hazel watched him go, something like sadness welling in her throat. You never lost me, She’d told him. She wanted to tell him that he never would, but hadn’t managed to get the words past her lips. Now she felt guilty that she wasn’t right there, able to give him what he needed. She swallowed, shoved away the tears that clogged her throat and the misery that welled in her chest.

Turning back to Alex, Hazel offered him a shaky smile. “Sorry,” she apologized. “are you new to the Ascendants?”

[b]suiteheart folie-mikaelson . ecliptic admiral . the ascendants . tags

Margaery was not the musical one. She had dabbled briefly in piano per her father's orders, pale fingers awkwardly stumbling over the keys as she strained to read the music, the melody she produced far from the emotional beauty Nik had demanded. He had bought her a grand piano, the best one on the market moved into their parlor so that she could practice and learn and then entertain just as she was supposed to. But she hated it - hated it with ever fiber of her being - and it soon became painfully obvious that she was not getting better, nor would she ever. The piano was still in their manor, more of a centerpiece, a conversation starter, than anything else. She didn't miss it.

The young woman could sing though, and often did she sing her heart out, entire concerts preformed for invisible audiences as she went about her day. But she didn't think that that made her musical... No, there were so many others that had better voices than her anyways, ones filled with heart and soul, capable of devastating or blessing any listener. She was not like them and admittedly, she was okay with that. Her talents rested in different places - in complicated mathematics and literature, in sports, and, as much as she detested admitting it, in art. But she hadn't painted anything in such a long time, the supplies that were really hers (though she had insisted they once belonged to her father) dusty and old now.

That had been their bonding activity once upon a time ago, the act of bringing something beautiful to life threading them closer and closer together. She had never been as good as him, his masterpieces hanging in galleries all around the world and hers, in their mansion, but she had never been particularly mad about that. Margaery had merely appreciated the few rare hours that she and her father were not painfully estranged, laughing and pretending that they were very much mundane individuals who hadn't seen the world and all of its horrors. Hadn't wrecked the world with their own horrors. 

But that chapter of her life had long since closed, and now she was trying to escape the adverse effects it had had on her. Where once she existed in a state of fragile harmony, she now fought tooth and nail not to slip under and permit one of her many counterparts to seize control. They had fallen out of resonance a long time ago, some difference along the way causing each and every one of them - Ingrid, Genevieve, Maarit, Margaery - to no longer be content with the way things had been forever. So she did what any logical person did and took up meditating. Before, well, today, she had never even thought to try the act. Margaery was usually one to repress her issues and move along, but she was too aware of the fact that that plan of attack no longer worked.

She needed to face her demons head on.

And so, the young woman sat criss-cross on the floor of her bunker room, palms resting on her knees. She had lit a few candles and the scent of lemon verbena practically choked her. She was of course allergic to verbena, the plant making it hard to do much of anything and leaving her skin patchy and red - burnt looking - if she physically touched it. But she was trying to weaken the hold that Genevieve in particular had on her, clouding her mind as she relaxed into the strange warmth of her own-

Was that music she was hearing?

The calm reverie of the scene was ruined as blue eyes flew open, Margaery rising quickly only to turn on a heel and out of the room to investigate. She was coughing when she arrived on the scene, and it appeared as if she had just missed Bastille and all his anger and jealousy. Instead, she came to a stop next to Shay, gaze trained upon Hazel and the ukulele she held and played.  For a moment, she detected her own jealousy, memories of that piano haunting her mind again. Hazel was good, very good, for someone who was relatively new to the instrument. She picked it up beautifully not to mention, her voice... oh, how wonderful her voice was.

"You really hate the piano, don't you love?"

Her father's voice rang in her mind, a jagged reminder of her own failure when it came to instruments. But she couldn't let that consume her... not when she knew that she was supposed to feel proud of Hazel and her accomplishments. And so, Margaery smiled, leaning into Shay only slightly as she did so. No doubt her wife could feel her disarray, no doubt that it probably worried her. She didn't feel like explaining though, hopefully her touch was enough to dismiss any concern.

[b]"Hello, love," Greeted woman easily, words coming easier than she had initially anticipated. Margaery had feared that what she could only have described as an inevitable bitterness would have laced her words, that smile turning sour the moment it happened. Maybe the lemon verbena was working. Maybe she was alright again. "You're very good at that, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if you came for Shay's throne," She joked easily, nudging her wife as she did so. "Also... Your voice is lovely. Absolutely lovely."

She was oblivious to the tension caused by Bastille, to the splintered earth that rested directly next to Hazel, to Vera's confusion and even awkwardness. Her throat felt tight but that was because of the verbena... she had arrived far too late to detect anything amiss - to watch anything misalign itself. Perhaps that was for the better though.

"We should sing together some time."

Hazel let Alex drag her mind away from Bastille, allowing the boy’s young voice smooth over the unsteady melody in her head. He was so small, so unsure of himself — such a child. He was just a boy, innocent and curious and shy. Hazel wanted to point out every sharp edge and blunt trauma life had to offer before it could get to him, to just...protect that delicate light in his eyes.

She could feel him watching her face closely, and realized via the heat in her cheeks that she still looked on the verge of tears. Hazel hastily wiped a thumb over the tender skin under her eyes, a flustered huff falling past her lips at his compliment. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alex.” She hummed, taking note of his preference to name. “I hope you like it here — it’s a beautiful place to live.” She smiled, smoothing a thumb over the soft wood of the ukulele’s neck. It was warm from her grip.

Again, Hazel wondered if Alex came to the Ascendants on his own. She wondered if he’d met Suite and Margy, knowing that they’d love him. He was young and inquisitive and hesitant, the type of child her friends seemed to latch onto and not let go until they were properly parented. Part of Hazel hoped they didn’t scare him off, actually.

Her thumb stalled over the instrument at his question, dread dropping like a lead weight in her stomach. Was she going to be okay? What a funny question. Her whole life was a constant stream of get up, you’re fine. You’re okay, but it was never a question.

“Yeah, Alex. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me, alright?” She smiled thinly. It was a half assed lie; a desperate wish and hope. She didn’t want him getting caught up between the drama with her and Bastille, anyway. It would be fruitless anyway. “It’s nothing big. Just...it’s nothing.” Deus, she needed to stop talking before she gave something away. The girl turned her attention back to her instrument, aimlessly rubbing her thumb across the chords.

When Suite joined them, Hazel startled — the earth splintering just a bit further — and looked up, eyes tracking her friend and then another figure as they follow. Hazel felt her skin prickle uncomfortably at the growing number of people, but things move too quickly for her to linger on it. Golden optics that glow faintly underneath the shadow of her bangs swept up and down Versaille’s figure, trying to place the sense of deja vu in the other girl’s aura. It was curious and shy, but different than Alex’s. Unsettled, maybe. Anxious. Hazel could relate, on some level.

Deciding not to make the newcomer more anxious than she already was, Hazel smiles brightly, her sincerity encouraged by Suite’s presence. “Hello,” She chirps, sitting a little straighter and folding her legs, “I don’t think we’ve met, either, which is a shame. I’m Hazel. Vera, right?” She gave her a little nod in the stead of a handshake, curls bouncing.

Then she switched her attention to Suite, teeth peeking through her grin as she noted the nickname for Alex. Ah, so they had met before. Good! “Ave, Suite.” She greeted, once again blushing at her compliment. “That’s very lenient of you, but I highly doubt I’ll ever live up to your skill. A girl can dream, though.” Or not. A nice dream would be welcomed.

“Thank you.” Hazel mumbled, glancing down at the designs on her ukulele. She hadn’t considered it art, and didn’t want to — all of her art supplies had been in shambles for over a month, and she wanted to keep it that way. The doodles on her instrument were either a fluke of habit, or something she’d done without noticing. A mode of comfort, maybe. Probably.

A dusty rose glowed in her peripheral, and Hazel turned, finding Margaery’s hourglass form sashaying towards them. Her brows knit at the woman’s coughing, her own nerve endings picking up on the heavy scent of verbena that clung to Margy’s clothes as well as the tremor in her aura. “Margy, you should let Peri check out that cough — it doesn’t sound too good.”

She sputtered as Margy gave her compliments as well, and Hazel wanted to shrink into the dust. There was so much attention on her — too much attention. She squirmed, unaware of the shudder in the ground beneath her. “Thank you,” She nearly mumbled. “That smoke from the fire did a number on my throat...I wish it wasn’t so scratchy.” She admitted, trying to divert some of her nerves.

At the mention of a duet, Hazel tightened her grip on the instrument, thumbs pressing down a little harder against the chords, forcing the notes out. Play? And sing? In front of everyone? As in...like a concert? Uh, no. No, no no. She loved Margaery, but that was...no. “Oh,” Her voice cracked. “That’s...maybe when I’m better at playing?” She  suggested sheepishly.