★  WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD

Had she forgotten him?

The answer, quite simply, was yes. Hazel had forgotten him like she had forgotten Eden.

Forgotten what they used to be; forgotten what they had been in the time where everything was just smooth sailing and stupid jokes, back when they were just kids trying to figure out what the extra thud of their heartbeat meant. When they were just children trying to find their footing on an unstable life.

To forget is different than to let go. Forgiveness is forgetting’s counterpart, the yin to its yang. Forgiveness is to let go, but forgetting is to leave behind. You can move on from leaving something behind, as you can if you let something go. The only difference is that once you let the rope swing across the cavern, you cannot reach out for it without backtracking and retracing every productive step you’ve taken. That is why when people let go, they willingly let it swing to where they cannot reach it, because they won’t be turning back. They won’t be retracing their steps.

Hazel did not let Eden go, and she did not let Bastille go. She tucked them away, deep into the darkest spots of her mind; the place where the shadows fell and the light did not touch. She locked them where she could feel nothing but their reflections.

It had taken months and months of tears and anxiety attacks and panic attacks to lock Bastille’s memory away. She might have left Eden angry at him, but their history was rooted so much deeper than her anger. Bastille was rooted deeper than their surface tension.

For the first few months, she would startle awake in the middle of the night, haunted by Charlotte’s past and her connection to the Underworld, and would immediately stand to go and find Bastille, knowing he wouldn’t complain when she showed up shaking and teary. Then the realization would slam home as the cold of the ground seeped into her feet, and Hazel would fall back against Arion, a choked sob escaping her throat. Guilt would crawl up her arms. Other nights she would dream of him and Alfred, and the stupid grin that would light up their faces when they shared an inside joke. She would think about the comfort that smothered them when they were all together, content and warm and lazy and happy. She would wake up from those dreams crying, too, her cheeks sore from smiling so much.

Sometimes it was worse during the day. Usually, the smell of salt stung the air from the ocean that lay a mile or two in parallel, or the woodsy scent of the forest would cling to her skin or Arion’s mane. But in the days where Hazel was tired, her mind (and senses, apparently) would drift, and on her next inhale, she would catch pine and smoke, and her heart would stop. Her mind would whisk her away, shoving her into the memory of tucking her nose into the crook of his neck and winding her fingers through his curly hair, her thumb sweeping across his scalp as she breathed in, committing the pine and smoke smell that stuck to his shirt and skin to memory. For the rest of the day, Hazel would sit underneath the nearest tree, hands shaking so badly she couldn’t work on the whittling project she carried with her.

Half a year passed like that. Half a year with his ghost following her, the only one bright enough to actually bother her. Weeks and weeks of seeing his freckles and his curls; weeks and weeks of seeing his icy blue eyes in the water, in the stars, in the blue flowers. Memories bubbled, quick and painful: power outages, uncontrollable storms, cracked courtyard cobbles, hundreds of flowers, nights by the fire, racing through the fields with their horses stretching neck and neck until she finally gave Arion the go-ahead and he pulled into the lead with ease, breakdowns, possession, souls, the smell of the stables, glitter fights, nicknames, training, a kiss.

Comfort.

Fuck. Fuck, Hazel hurt so much in those six months. She felt like she was walking with an open wound, bleeding for weeks on end. Her chest grew sore with heartache, and she was crying more often than not. Her fury at him for Dahlia lasted a mere two weeks before she missed him too much to be angry. She wanted him. Didn’t care that Dahlia was gone from Eden because he had exiled her. She wanted him.

But it was too late.

It was way too fucking late for any of that, and Hazel had foolishly screamed her frustration to the stars too many times in those six months.

Now she knew she would never see him again. She knew he was gone, lost with the perfect memory of Eden.

She had no picture of him. She could no longer remember the shape of his face, despite how many times she had run her fingertips over the line of his jaw. She couldn’t remember what his laugh sounded like. She could remember that he had curly chocolate hair and blue eyes and more freckles than the sky had stars, but for the life of her, she could not remember him. And that was just memory.

She should have mourned that fact. She should have cried over it, like she had for six months. Instead, she was grateful. Grateful because she could finally get on with whatever the hell she was doing with her life. Hazel was well aware that he would forever be ingrained in her, his mannerisms and humor seeping into hers, making her snort whenever she thought of something that he would have lashed out at with a sarcastic snap.

Steadily, Hazel lost her ties to him. She forgot how to read auras, or how to even look for them. She forgot how to control her powers - what little control he had taught her in the first place, anyway - and how to care for someone besides herself and Arion. She lost touch with her souls (was she happy or sad about it?). They just...faded into the ground.

So she moved on.

She moved on. She walked and talked like a normal person. She rode Arion for hours in the open fields they found. She joined a group of travellers for protection and made new friends, even if she held them at an arm’s distance.

Now she was here, staring this seemingly tired boy in his icy blue eyes.

Ice...blue. Ice blue. Ice blue eyes that weren’t tired, but apathetic. Dead. Truly cold in not only color but virtue. Something unhinged in Hazel - something like dread and fury and apprehension and panic, and he couldn’t see the way her lips parted underneath the bandana, couldn’t feel the way her heart slammed against her ribcage as her eyes darted frantically, up, down, and a glance in Octavia’s direction. Couldn’t see the ruby that popped up at her foot, because this definitely was not -

The boy shifted and lurched underneath her, throwing her off with far too much ease. There was a pause before she hit the ground, bounced on nothing, and then dropped. Taking only a moment to recover her breath, Hazel stood, ignoring the gems that popped up around her feet. Ignored them like she had every day for the past year.

”Don’t kid yourself, princess.”

The color drained from Hazel’s face.

There was her confirmation. She didn’t even need to see the haunted expression that flashed in his eyes to know who this was was. The nickname was enough to give her goosebumps - enough to strike her right through the heart.

And then it just broke. The lock in her head snapped, and so many things flooded her mind she started to tremble. Happiness, relief, disbelief, fear, panic, love, heartbreak, sadness and fury rolled through her, all expressed in her slack jawed expression. She tottered back a step, sword dangling at her side. Stared at him with wide eyes. Refusal to be believe.

Then that refusal turned into anger. You’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that if you plan on keeping me down. He said. Hazel’s fingers curled into fists, and her arms shook. Confusion was rolling, toiling in her stomach, making her sick with nausea and frustration.

She was so lost, her world fucking flipping ass over tea kettle and shaking her like a rag doll. Twelve months of mental training, and then some. Twelve months of knowing that she had lost her best friend, and it was all her fault. Six months of living with that grief. Six months of emotional pain so strong she could touch it. And then finally coming to terms with it, and taking shaky steps to start her new life.

And then he just magically fucking pops up and turns it all upside down.

Hazel lurched forward with a broken yell, raising her sword and taking an expert swing at him. “No! I left Eden! I left it behind! Things fell apart and I -” She spun and swung again, wishing so desperately that he had a sword as well and this was a fair fight. “Dahl - ” Hazel choked on her words, but swallowed, and kept going. “Dahlia was gone, turned dark, but I didn’t know why and - and you! You didn’t tell me anything! I didn’t - you disappeared for - for a week before Dahlia went dark, and nobody knew where you were, and then you come back, and everything’s wrong and Dahlia’s a demoness and you looked like you didn’t give a damn and then demons were everywhere and I couldn’t -” Her voice broke again, and her next swing was weaker as she stuttered on a sob. “I couldn’t do anything, and - I couldn’t - I didn’t understand what was going on, and so I left! I left and I left Eden and I forgot, and I’ve been okay and - and I left you on your own.” Her voice grew quiet, and she didn’t bother wiping at the tears streaming down her face.

She couldn’t bring herself to say what she meant: that she had finally pushed him away, like he’d wanted her to all these years. She’d finally pushed him to the farthest part of her mind and left him there, because she was so certain that she’d never see him again. “I’m...I left to - I left - ” She whispered, unable to form a complete sentence as she backed away from him, chest and breath hiccuping. She finally reached up to pull the bandana off of her face with shaking fingers, crumpling it in her palm and shoving it in her pocket.

Hazel was still angry. God, she was. She could feel it humming under her skin. She wanted him to leave, because she knew he didn’t want her...wouldn’t ever want her. She wanted him to leave so she didn’t have to keep staring at him and remembering the one time she had been young and stupid and planted her lips against his. So she didn’t have to remember the way he held her, arms wrapped tight enough to bruise, but his intentions softer than they’d ever been. So she could quit feeling the brush of his skin against hers when he dragged her into bed for an unannounced cuddle session. So she didn’t have to remember how fucking great their lives had been at one point, and how she’d single handedly managed to screw the entire thing.

God, why was he here?

★ — hazel — "speech" — six months — the ascendants — tags — ★
c) miithers