05-23-2018, 07:02 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-23-2018, 07:19 PM by BASTILLEPAW.)
[div style="text-align: justify; margin: auto; line-height: 110%; font-size: 10pt; width: 80%"]Bastille wondered, briefly, how they had gotten here. Well, he supposed Hazel had a soul that was meant for happiness -- she was bright and lovely and radiant; she was liquid gold, with the gentlest touches of divinity that made his head spin when he looked at her aura for too long or too intently. She was... she was good. She was the light. It didn't matter what struggles or traumas life threw at her: she always would have achieved happiness, some how, some way. She was destined for it.
He had a mixed relationship with Fate. He believed in it, as much as he believed in anything. He had always believed that his souls were damned to failure and that he was destined to fail with them. He believed that Grimm chose hosts for a reason, and that it was no coincidence that his last host before Bastille -- Grimmkit, the form he still envisioned him in -- was Zaniel's son. The fact that his own father was a drunken player who only met his mother once couldn't be chance; nor the fact that the tom had belonged to Echo's Tribe, albeit several generations after the stealth-walker had lived there. Everything in his life could be connected to his souls in some way, and he knew that in some form, Fate existed. Gods, he often said -- though he had no clear concept or care for who, precisely, he meant. Maybe he meant all of them, or maybe he just didn't care enough for any religious values to truly think about what he said and why. Maybe he'd simply borrowed the phrase from someone, a past host or past life. No, the only true absolute that he believed in was Fate and her cruelty.
So he wondered, not for the first time, how Fate could have brought Hazel to him. He had no idea what his aura really looked like, but he knew that it could never rival the vibrance or purity of hers; he knew that, no matter what he did, the darkness of his pasts would shine through. Zaniel, Pollutedsoul -- they'd be good once. Hopeful, young, in love with their families and Clans, eager to be good and do good. He imagined that at some point, their auras had been good, average, decent. But he knew that auras could change as people did, that souls could be corrupted, and he knew that there was darkness there. With Echo, there had always been darkness; Fate had chased him through his lifetime, too.
So, what did that leave him? He couldn't be sure. Of course, his entity was entirely comprised of his souls -- he didn't have a fourth one of his own, even if he tended to consider the four of them as separate identities -- and of their vices. But Bastille wasn't necessarily like them. He carried a mix of their traits, could trace more of his habits and inclinations to one or the other, and he carried their weaknesses -- but he was supposed to be their redemption, the physical manifestation of restless souls finally being put at ease as their last wishes were accomplished. He fought against the mistakes they had made and tried to be better. Did that make his aura a good one, or did it simply mean he was in denial about his reality?
He supposed he would never know, not really. Whatever the answer, he wasn't sure how, exactly, Hazel could have ever been intended for him -- the light to his darkness, so to speak. And yet she was. He knew that, had known it from the second he met her, if he was willing to be honest with himself. No one had ever struck him as intensely and wonderfully as Hazel did, and his love for her was not something that burned out or withered with time. She was it. She was his, or rather, more accurately, he was hers and always had been. Against all odds, he'd managed to find his way back to her, just as they always seemed to. It may be dramatic to consider her his sun, but she certainly seemed to have a soul-binding, gravitational pull on him.
For a beat, he simply looked back at her, at a loss. He supposed he had never really considered what she thought of his souls. Sure, he'd always assumed that she must carry the same grudge against them as he did, and he knew she wasn't particularly fond of Echo, but he hadn't really thought of the fact that for all the times he'd asserted that he was them, more or less, that she'd agreed. She'd agreed and not cared, had even been able to appreciate them for spitting out Bastille. He would remove Pollutedsoul if he could, but she was right -- without him, he wouldn't be the same.
He ducked his head to kiss her again, and found himself smiling against her mouth as she threw her words back at him. Hell, he was pretty sure that she had used them more than he had, at this point -- he remembered, briefly, the dim of her room and the vicious, gnawing guilt as he forced himself to face her in the aftermath of Echo, remembered her reminding him then of what he'd told her so long ago. He pressed another kiss against her mouth, warm and demanding, and then breathed, "Thank you." For accepting them, for loving him back, for always forcing him to take a step back and consider his own advice. For being here, warm and light and seemingly an impossibility.
His smile dimmed as she spoke, and he brought her shaky fingers to his mouth, kissing her knuckles gently. He didn't care if he'd gotten blood on them both, really — all he cared about was her, was bringing out that same bright happiness once more. ”It’s not all your fault, Hazel, any more than you’ll let it be my fault for letting you leave or letting Eden fall. I shouldn’t have acted like you alone were responsible for saving me. I don’t blame you for leaving, not any more,” he murmured, mouth hitching upwards slightly as he added, ”If I’m not allowed to wallow in self-loathing, neither are you. If forgiveness is what you’re looking for, I’ve already given it. I don’t care what happened, or what could have been, or anything else.”
He dropped their clasped hands once more, focusing instead on her eyes, her proximity. ”The only thing that matters now is that I found you again, and I don’t plan on losing you this time.” He leaned back slightly, stifled a wince, and kept going — let himself fall backwards and drew her with him, coaxing her to lay down next to him. He tugged her close against his side and leaned his head against hers, adding finally, ”Now stop being ridiculous and tell me about where you’ve been.” He thought that it might hurt, wondering where she’d been or what she’d been doing for all this time, but instead there was simply a vague curiosity. It was hard to feel sorry for the time in between when she was so warm against him, when he hadn’t felt this content in years — bloodloss be damned.
He had a mixed relationship with Fate. He believed in it, as much as he believed in anything. He had always believed that his souls were damned to failure and that he was destined to fail with them. He believed that Grimm chose hosts for a reason, and that it was no coincidence that his last host before Bastille -- Grimmkit, the form he still envisioned him in -- was Zaniel's son. The fact that his own father was a drunken player who only met his mother once couldn't be chance; nor the fact that the tom had belonged to Echo's Tribe, albeit several generations after the stealth-walker had lived there. Everything in his life could be connected to his souls in some way, and he knew that in some form, Fate existed. Gods, he often said -- though he had no clear concept or care for who, precisely, he meant. Maybe he meant all of them, or maybe he just didn't care enough for any religious values to truly think about what he said and why. Maybe he'd simply borrowed the phrase from someone, a past host or past life. No, the only true absolute that he believed in was Fate and her cruelty.
So he wondered, not for the first time, how Fate could have brought Hazel to him. He had no idea what his aura really looked like, but he knew that it could never rival the vibrance or purity of hers; he knew that, no matter what he did, the darkness of his pasts would shine through. Zaniel, Pollutedsoul -- they'd be good once. Hopeful, young, in love with their families and Clans, eager to be good and do good. He imagined that at some point, their auras had been good, average, decent. But he knew that auras could change as people did, that souls could be corrupted, and he knew that there was darkness there. With Echo, there had always been darkness; Fate had chased him through his lifetime, too.
So, what did that leave him? He couldn't be sure. Of course, his entity was entirely comprised of his souls -- he didn't have a fourth one of his own, even if he tended to consider the four of them as separate identities -- and of their vices. But Bastille wasn't necessarily like them. He carried a mix of their traits, could trace more of his habits and inclinations to one or the other, and he carried their weaknesses -- but he was supposed to be their redemption, the physical manifestation of restless souls finally being put at ease as their last wishes were accomplished. He fought against the mistakes they had made and tried to be better. Did that make his aura a good one, or did it simply mean he was in denial about his reality?
He supposed he would never know, not really. Whatever the answer, he wasn't sure how, exactly, Hazel could have ever been intended for him -- the light to his darkness, so to speak. And yet she was. He knew that, had known it from the second he met her, if he was willing to be honest with himself. No one had ever struck him as intensely and wonderfully as Hazel did, and his love for her was not something that burned out or withered with time. She was it. She was his, or rather, more accurately, he was hers and always had been. Against all odds, he'd managed to find his way back to her, just as they always seemed to. It may be dramatic to consider her his sun, but she certainly seemed to have a soul-binding, gravitational pull on him.
For a beat, he simply looked back at her, at a loss. He supposed he had never really considered what she thought of his souls. Sure, he'd always assumed that she must carry the same grudge against them as he did, and he knew she wasn't particularly fond of Echo, but he hadn't really thought of the fact that for all the times he'd asserted that he was them, more or less, that she'd agreed. She'd agreed and not cared, had even been able to appreciate them for spitting out Bastille. He would remove Pollutedsoul if he could, but she was right -- without him, he wouldn't be the same.
He ducked his head to kiss her again, and found himself smiling against her mouth as she threw her words back at him. Hell, he was pretty sure that she had used them more than he had, at this point -- he remembered, briefly, the dim of her room and the vicious, gnawing guilt as he forced himself to face her in the aftermath of Echo, remembered her reminding him then of what he'd told her so long ago. He pressed another kiss against her mouth, warm and demanding, and then breathed, "Thank you." For accepting them, for loving him back, for always forcing him to take a step back and consider his own advice. For being here, warm and light and seemingly an impossibility.
His smile dimmed as she spoke, and he brought her shaky fingers to his mouth, kissing her knuckles gently. He didn't care if he'd gotten blood on them both, really — all he cared about was her, was bringing out that same bright happiness once more. ”It’s not all your fault, Hazel, any more than you’ll let it be my fault for letting you leave or letting Eden fall. I shouldn’t have acted like you alone were responsible for saving me. I don’t blame you for leaving, not any more,” he murmured, mouth hitching upwards slightly as he added, ”If I’m not allowed to wallow in self-loathing, neither are you. If forgiveness is what you’re looking for, I’ve already given it. I don’t care what happened, or what could have been, or anything else.”
He dropped their clasped hands once more, focusing instead on her eyes, her proximity. ”The only thing that matters now is that I found you again, and I don’t plan on losing you this time.” He leaned back slightly, stifled a wince, and kept going — let himself fall backwards and drew her with him, coaxing her to lay down next to him. He tugged her close against his side and leaned his head against hers, adding finally, ”Now stop being ridiculous and tell me about where you’ve been.” He thought that it might hurt, wondering where she’d been or what she’d been doing for all this time, but instead there was simply a vague curiosity. It was hard to feel sorry for the time in between when she was so warm against him, when he hadn’t felt this content in years — bloodloss be damned.
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]