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“Exspecta, exspecta!”
Horror always seemed to bring out Hazel’s Latin tongue, the same way confusion or a sudden burst of contentment did. Whether it flowed better than English or not was lost to the depths of Hazel’s mind as she shoved everything aside: the bond, Bastille, Titaniumstars, her self worth (or lack thereof). Everything took a backseat because there was that chill down her spine; that same one she recognized right before she found Margaery dead in her room and Bastille with a stopped heart.
Because gods above this time it wasn’t blue or muave tinged — it was nearly violet, the reds and blues blurring together. So quickly Hazel had to pause to make sure it wasn’t two different people. Nevertheless, her moment of hesitation lasted a heartbeat before she tore through the observatory, paws working as fast as they could.
She was so close; so close to that little inkling of something akin to happiness. So close to what she could finally call a break. But no, it seemed as if she were cursed: forced to live out the heartbreak of knowing Death was imminent and being so completely fucking helpless in the face of it. Because the harder she ran, the more she picked through peoples’ auras in her mind, the harder her heart slammed against her chest.
Because she knew who it was.
“Suiteheart!” The name fell from her lips in a heartbreaking, broken wail. She skidded to a halt, breath hiccuping and tears already overflowing and she didn’t register Margaery’s words because — Deus — “Quaeso, ne moriar,” Hazel cried, “non opus est tibi, Suite.”
Fuck. Fuck, this was too familiar. Too like Margaery’s death. She hated the sinking feeling in her gut, hated the chill of Death that made her shiver and feel like she was submerged in snow. She hated seeing Suiteheart like this. Hated hearing her voice in the back of her head while she moved her fingers to the correct positioning on the fretboard of Suite’s own ukulele; hated hearing the list of herbs and their purposes over and over; hated hearing her comforting words and her kind smile and her give ‘em hell attitude and her voice that sounded like what a mother’s should be, knowing that she would never hear it again —
God, it was too much.
(Exspecta, exspecta! - wait, wait!
Quaeso, ne moriar - please, don’t die
Non opus est tibi - we need you)
[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
[align=center]hazel elise caelum . eight months . the ascendants . golden girl . tags
“Exspecta, exspecta!”
Horror always seemed to bring out Hazel’s Latin tongue, the same way confusion or a sudden burst of contentment did. Whether it flowed better than English or not was lost to the depths of Hazel’s mind as she shoved everything aside: the bond, Bastille, Titaniumstars, her self worth (or lack thereof). Everything took a backseat because there was that chill down her spine; that same one she recognized right before she found Margaery dead in her room and Bastille with a stopped heart.
Because gods above this time it wasn’t blue or muave tinged — it was nearly violet, the reds and blues blurring together. So quickly Hazel had to pause to make sure it wasn’t two different people. Nevertheless, her moment of hesitation lasted a heartbeat before she tore through the observatory, paws working as fast as they could.
She was so close; so close to that little inkling of something akin to happiness. So close to what she could finally call a break. But no, it seemed as if she were cursed: forced to live out the heartbreak of knowing Death was imminent and being so completely fucking helpless in the face of it. Because the harder she ran, the more she picked through peoples’ auras in her mind, the harder her heart slammed against her chest.
Because she knew who it was.
“Suiteheart!” The name fell from her lips in a heartbreaking, broken wail. She skidded to a halt, breath hiccuping and tears already overflowing and she didn’t register Margaery’s words because — Deus — “Quaeso, ne moriar,” Hazel cried, “non opus est tibi, Suite.”
Fuck. Fuck, this was too familiar. Too like Margaery’s death. She hated the sinking feeling in her gut, hated the chill of Death that made her shiver and feel like she was submerged in snow. She hated seeing Suiteheart like this. Hated hearing her voice in the back of her head while she moved her fingers to the correct positioning on the fretboard of Suite’s own ukulele; hated hearing the list of herbs and their purposes over and over; hated hearing her comforting words and her kind smile and her give ‘em hell attitude and her voice that sounded like what a mother’s should be, knowing that she would never hear it again —
God, it was too much.
(Exspecta, exspecta! - wait, wait!
Quaeso, ne moriar - please, don’t die
Non opus est tibi - we need you)
[align=center]
WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better