06-11-2018, 05:48 PM
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[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
ooc this is gonna be a human au? if that's chill w you? also i think this'll be before bast's death!!
Hazel sat outside Margaery's room for a long, long time, fiddling with her pendant and tracing over the now-dry constellations that glowed on the cement floor. Pele had done a truly wonderful job of mapping out the stars; had Hazel just gone at it, it would be...a mess.
Much like the state her friends were in. Her mentor, specifically.
Margaery's pregnancy was no easy feat, she knew. Vampiric pregnancies never were. (Not that Hazel would know, specifically...she was just guessing, given what she'd seen.) But there was something about Margy's recent nose-dive into the ground that seemed severe and almost like the worse-case scenario of Depression. Hazel had never seen the regal woman so lifeless and limp.
Hazel knew that something had gone down between Margy and Bastille. There was nothing else that could have produced such a sad scene. Whether Bastille had done something to her physically or mentally was still out, but Hazel knew one thing for sure: she was going to lay into that boy for whatever the hell he'd said to Margaery, no matter how pathetic he was. She might apologize and help him after, or later, but definitely not before.
She had been meaning to talk to Margy for a couple days now. She had her reason and her questions, so what was she waiting for? The girl had been sitting outside the door for a good forty-five minutes, contemplating, considering. Hazel could talk, and she could make promises and speak soothing words, but it only took her so far. What happened when that didn't work? When other means of comfort were needed, and Hazel wouldn't have the balls to step up to bat? She couldn't touch people. The thought of fingers and pressure and warmth were all supposed to be cravings (and she did crave it. She had craved it since the night of her first flashback). People were supposed to long for the touch of another human. And you know what? Maybe she did. Maybe she did want that contact, somewhere, deep under layers of fear that were cemented in place by her childhood. But that was her roadblock: being unable to overcome the flashes of pain and terror that singed her eyelids every time someone laid a hand on her.
So Hazel had her difficulties. So what? It wasn't like anybody had the free time to fix them for her. Hazel hated the idea of walking up to someone and laying out her history, then looking at them with pleading eyes that said take this as an excuse. Also, fix it for me. Fix me. Everyone had their own schedules, their own agendas. But Hazel was finding it harder and harder to hold on to the thought that she alone could overcome this stupid fear. And maybe...she was thinking of finally opening up to someone about it. Someone who could help her.
Swiping a thumb underneath the golden bandana still tied around her forearm, where the skin was still soft from lack of exposure, Hazel shivered as her thumb pad grazed the jagged, bumpy scar that marred the inside of her arm. She could do this. She could hug Margaery if she needed it. She could do this.
Running slightly shaky hands through a messy thatch of curls, Hazel pushed herself to her feet, and quietly knocked. "Margy?" She asked, slowly turning the handle but not entering or pushing the door open. "Sit per me venire?" Hoping the Latin might calm or soothe the woman in some way, Hazel waited on baited breath for her answer.
(Sit per me venire? - May I come in?)
Hazel sat outside Margaery's room for a long, long time, fiddling with her pendant and tracing over the now-dry constellations that glowed on the cement floor. Pele had done a truly wonderful job of mapping out the stars; had Hazel just gone at it, it would be...a mess.
Much like the state her friends were in. Her mentor, specifically.
Margaery's pregnancy was no easy feat, she knew. Vampiric pregnancies never were. (Not that Hazel would know, specifically...she was just guessing, given what she'd seen.) But there was something about Margy's recent nose-dive into the ground that seemed severe and almost like the worse-case scenario of Depression. Hazel had never seen the regal woman so lifeless and limp.
Hazel knew that something had gone down between Margy and Bastille. There was nothing else that could have produced such a sad scene. Whether Bastille had done something to her physically or mentally was still out, but Hazel knew one thing for sure: she was going to lay into that boy for whatever the hell he'd said to Margaery, no matter how pathetic he was. She might apologize and help him after, or later, but definitely not before.
She had been meaning to talk to Margy for a couple days now. She had her reason and her questions, so what was she waiting for? The girl had been sitting outside the door for a good forty-five minutes, contemplating, considering. Hazel could talk, and she could make promises and speak soothing words, but it only took her so far. What happened when that didn't work? When other means of comfort were needed, and Hazel wouldn't have the balls to step up to bat? She couldn't touch people. The thought of fingers and pressure and warmth were all supposed to be cravings (and she did crave it. She had craved it since the night of her first flashback). People were supposed to long for the touch of another human. And you know what? Maybe she did. Maybe she did want that contact, somewhere, deep under layers of fear that were cemented in place by her childhood. But that was her roadblock: being unable to overcome the flashes of pain and terror that singed her eyelids every time someone laid a hand on her.
So Hazel had her difficulties. So what? It wasn't like anybody had the free time to fix them for her. Hazel hated the idea of walking up to someone and laying out her history, then looking at them with pleading eyes that said take this as an excuse. Also, fix it for me. Fix me. Everyone had their own schedules, their own agendas. But Hazel was finding it harder and harder to hold on to the thought that she alone could overcome this stupid fear. And maybe...she was thinking of finally opening up to someone about it. Someone who could help her.
Swiping a thumb underneath the golden bandana still tied around her forearm, where the skin was still soft from lack of exposure, Hazel shivered as her thumb pad grazed the jagged, bumpy scar that marred the inside of her arm. She could do this. She could hug Margaery if she needed it. She could do this.
Running slightly shaky hands through a messy thatch of curls, Hazel pushed herself to her feet, and quietly knocked. "Margy?" She asked, slowly turning the handle but not entering or pushing the door open. "Sit per me venire?" Hoping the Latin might calm or soothe the woman in some way, Hazel waited on baited breath for her answer.
(Sit per me venire? - May I come in?)
★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better