06-25-2018, 05:24 PM
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[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
Hazel was...exhausted.
It had been three days since Margaery died; three days since Hazel had watched the chocolate point’s body get lowered into the ground. In that moment, the girl had so wholly felt the cold draft of death and lifelessness waft from her friend’s body that she had to sit down or risk collapse. Three days of draining guilt.
It had been two days since her panic attack. Two days since she broke for the second time, coming completely unglued and letting it get the better of her. In front of people, no less. In front of Bastille and Suite, who undoubtedly thought she was pathetic and incapable of just about everything at this point.
Two days since she had talked to the girl in her mindscape, discovering that she could very easily pick out Hazel’s biggest insecurities and exploit them until Hazel cracked and broke. Two days of going without sleep, knowing that when she closed her eyes, promised nightmares would flash behind her eyelids and she’d wake up screaming, breathing hard and soaked in sweat. Two days of forced social interaction and trying to ignore the open gateway in her head, knowing it was attached to Bastille and knowing he could peer into her mind much easier than she could and letting that frustration simmer under her bones.
Two days of dread and anxiety, fearing she might have to live like this for months before it could possibly get better.
One day since she had accepted this fate, deeming it better than what was waiting for her outside of the Ascendants.
It took effort to drag herself out to the group, it really did; she might’ve looked alright from afar: trotting at a steady pace with tail lifted in feigned interest - but up close, the exhaustion was evident in her dull eyes and lack of luster in her aura. Nevertheless, she followed the crowd obediently, having convinced herself that keeping up appearances was the only thing that would keep away suspicion.
She expected another joiner, but what she got was...so, so much better.
“Margy?” Hazel managed, shock rippling full force. “I’m - how are you -“ So many questions, so many questions; why wasn’t she dead? How did she come back? If she could come back, why did she leave in the first place? Where had the lingering traces of death that clung to her pelt go?
“Qui revera non est?” She choked out, the Latin falling off her tongue like it did so naturally when she was around Margaery. Because Margy couldn’t really be here, couldn’t really be back. This was different than Bastille’s stunt! This hadn’t been a minute and a half - this was three days! Hazel’s heart and state of exhaustion couldn’t take this much more.
“You guys can not keep doing this,” She huffed, eyes wet and bleary. “I can’t take it if you keep leaving.” She kept her gaze zeroed in on Margaery, worried that if she looked somewhere else, she would disappear. But the feeling of distress undoubtedly traveled along the line Bastille, pointing a metaphorical finger at his chest.
(Quia revera non est? - is that really you?)
It had been three days since Margaery died; three days since Hazel had watched the chocolate point’s body get lowered into the ground. In that moment, the girl had so wholly felt the cold draft of death and lifelessness waft from her friend’s body that she had to sit down or risk collapse. Three days of draining guilt.
It had been two days since her panic attack. Two days since she broke for the second time, coming completely unglued and letting it get the better of her. In front of people, no less. In front of Bastille and Suite, who undoubtedly thought she was pathetic and incapable of just about everything at this point.
Two days since she had talked to the girl in her mindscape, discovering that she could very easily pick out Hazel’s biggest insecurities and exploit them until Hazel cracked and broke. Two days of going without sleep, knowing that when she closed her eyes, promised nightmares would flash behind her eyelids and she’d wake up screaming, breathing hard and soaked in sweat. Two days of forced social interaction and trying to ignore the open gateway in her head, knowing it was attached to Bastille and knowing he could peer into her mind much easier than she could and letting that frustration simmer under her bones.
Two days of dread and anxiety, fearing she might have to live like this for months before it could possibly get better.
One day since she had accepted this fate, deeming it better than what was waiting for her outside of the Ascendants.
It took effort to drag herself out to the group, it really did; she might’ve looked alright from afar: trotting at a steady pace with tail lifted in feigned interest - but up close, the exhaustion was evident in her dull eyes and lack of luster in her aura. Nevertheless, she followed the crowd obediently, having convinced herself that keeping up appearances was the only thing that would keep away suspicion.
She expected another joiner, but what she got was...so, so much better.
“Margy?” Hazel managed, shock rippling full force. “I’m - how are you -“ So many questions, so many questions; why wasn’t she dead? How did she come back? If she could come back, why did she leave in the first place? Where had the lingering traces of death that clung to her pelt go?
“Qui revera non est?” She choked out, the Latin falling off her tongue like it did so naturally when she was around Margaery. Because Margy couldn’t really be here, couldn’t really be back. This was different than Bastille’s stunt! This hadn’t been a minute and a half - this was three days! Hazel’s heart and state of exhaustion couldn’t take this much more.
“You guys can not keep doing this,” She huffed, eyes wet and bleary. “I can’t take it if you keep leaving.” She kept her gaze zeroed in on Margaery, worried that if she looked somewhere else, she would disappear. But the feeling of distress undoubtedly traveled along the line Bastille, pointing a metaphorical finger at his chest.
(Quia revera non est? - is that really you?)
★ — 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