07-16-2018, 11:05 PM
BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS — [color=#21201c]TAGS
He could sense her, sometimes -- a phantom chill, skittering down his spine, only she was warm and airy and smelled like vanilla. He'd dream of the past, of those short years that she was with him; he'd see her so clearly, so vividly, her aura radiating through the memories. Sometimes, a faint signature would ping on his radar, drawing his head up in the middle of the day as he stared into the distance towards it. But she was faint, out of reach, never revealing herself to him entirely -- a ghost, slipping through the cracks. Bastille couldn't begin to understand what it meant. If his mother was out there, lurking close since she'd saved him, why was she keeping her distance? It didn't make any sense, and at times he thought he was imagining it. He must be. He still remembered that dainty little girl, standing over him with a smug smile and pretty flowers at her feet as she wrenched the sliver of his mother's soul out of him. Taking back what was hers, she'd called it, and then she was gone, leaving him to wither and shake on the ground as the alignment of his souls shattered.
Other times, he felt her so clearly he could hear her singing. He had wondered for some time how Hazel had known that song, the French falling from her tongue gracefully, as if she'd been born with the language as naturally as Latin: soft, lilting, drifting through the medic's room as her fingers combed softly through his hair. Maybe it was him, though. Maybe it was his thoughts, his memories, the soft lull of his mother's voice passing through the bond as he heard her singing so clearly. Could she hear it, as clearly as he could, sometimes? He wondered. (He never would have imagined that it was coming from her end, not his own.)
Tonight, she was singing in his dreams. He couldn't remember falling asleep, but there was something restless about it all, a frustration and fluttering sense of panic in his throat. He tossed and turned, never quite asleep and never quite awake, feeling it build and build at the base of his spine. It gnawed and lashed at him, sinking its claws into his skin, but he could never place it, never say what it was eating away at him, the tension rising and rising under the surface. He thrashed, shoving half the blankets off the bed, and felt feverish. This wasn't the same as the withdrawal, though. This was something deeper, setting his souls on edge, making it impossible to sleep and impossible to fully wake himself up.
And all the while, his mother sang in the distance.
It was the screaming that woke him up. High and desperate, angry, broken -- cutting straight through the haze of the chaotic abyss. "Hazel," he choked as he jerked, rolling out of bed as the awareness shot down his spine like lightning. He landed on his hands and knees, gasping as her emotions surged through the bond, stronger than before: everything that had been building and withering in his gut had erupted, white-hot flames and destruction shooting through his veins. His breaths came in jagged gasps as he struggled to get a grip, to place the source of the messy, awful things running under his skin, and then his own panic was rising to meet hers.
He had to find her, and he was on his feet in the next moment, chasing the golden thread linking them together with desperation. He was exhausted, her exhaustion in the wake of the explosion sinking into his bones, but he pushed through the haze. It was nothing he hadn't gotten used to, navigating the bond, and he would get through it now if it meant finding her.
(He didn't like the way things tapered off and sounded felt still in the aftermath, the way he sensed something big and then... nothing. Silence. Exhaustion. Defeat.)
He couldn't track her well enough to teleport, not with things so faint all of a sudden, but he ran faster, following in her footsteps as he pushed out of the Observatory and ran and ran. He was so relieved when he saw her that he almost tripped himself on the jagged crack in the earth, and he forced himself to stop, giving her space, sucking in a breath to calm his jittery heartbeat as he stared at her. Stared and made sure she was okay and felt something loosen and settle at the visual confirmation.
He wanted to grab her so desperately, but he breathed in once more, and slowly sank to a crouch. He sat on his heels as he stared at her across the fractured ground, breathing softly into the cold air, "That's my line, boo." He cleared his throat when his voice came out cracked, and murmured, "Are you okay?" He wanted to touch, to reassure, but he told himself not to. Give her space, give her space. Don't panic.
He could sense her, sometimes -- a phantom chill, skittering down his spine, only she was warm and airy and smelled like vanilla. He'd dream of the past, of those short years that she was with him; he'd see her so clearly, so vividly, her aura radiating through the memories. Sometimes, a faint signature would ping on his radar, drawing his head up in the middle of the day as he stared into the distance towards it. But she was faint, out of reach, never revealing herself to him entirely -- a ghost, slipping through the cracks. Bastille couldn't begin to understand what it meant. If his mother was out there, lurking close since she'd saved him, why was she keeping her distance? It didn't make any sense, and at times he thought he was imagining it. He must be. He still remembered that dainty little girl, standing over him with a smug smile and pretty flowers at her feet as she wrenched the sliver of his mother's soul out of him. Taking back what was hers, she'd called it, and then she was gone, leaving him to wither and shake on the ground as the alignment of his souls shattered.
Other times, he felt her so clearly he could hear her singing. He had wondered for some time how Hazel had known that song, the French falling from her tongue gracefully, as if she'd been born with the language as naturally as Latin: soft, lilting, drifting through the medic's room as her fingers combed softly through his hair. Maybe it was him, though. Maybe it was his thoughts, his memories, the soft lull of his mother's voice passing through the bond as he heard her singing so clearly. Could she hear it, as clearly as he could, sometimes? He wondered. (He never would have imagined that it was coming from her end, not his own.)
Tonight, she was singing in his dreams. He couldn't remember falling asleep, but there was something restless about it all, a frustration and fluttering sense of panic in his throat. He tossed and turned, never quite asleep and never quite awake, feeling it build and build at the base of his spine. It gnawed and lashed at him, sinking its claws into his skin, but he could never place it, never say what it was eating away at him, the tension rising and rising under the surface. He thrashed, shoving half the blankets off the bed, and felt feverish. This wasn't the same as the withdrawal, though. This was something deeper, setting his souls on edge, making it impossible to sleep and impossible to fully wake himself up.
And all the while, his mother sang in the distance.
It was the screaming that woke him up. High and desperate, angry, broken -- cutting straight through the haze of the chaotic abyss. "Hazel," he choked as he jerked, rolling out of bed as the awareness shot down his spine like lightning. He landed on his hands and knees, gasping as her emotions surged through the bond, stronger than before: everything that had been building and withering in his gut had erupted, white-hot flames and destruction shooting through his veins. His breaths came in jagged gasps as he struggled to get a grip, to place the source of the messy, awful things running under his skin, and then his own panic was rising to meet hers.
He had to find her, and he was on his feet in the next moment, chasing the golden thread linking them together with desperation. He was exhausted, her exhaustion in the wake of the explosion sinking into his bones, but he pushed through the haze. It was nothing he hadn't gotten used to, navigating the bond, and he would get through it now if it meant finding her.
(He didn't like the way things tapered off and sounded felt still in the aftermath, the way he sensed something big and then... nothing. Silence. Exhaustion. Defeat.)
He couldn't track her well enough to teleport, not with things so faint all of a sudden, but he ran faster, following in her footsteps as he pushed out of the Observatory and ran and ran. He was so relieved when he saw her that he almost tripped himself on the jagged crack in the earth, and he forced himself to stop, giving her space, sucking in a breath to calm his jittery heartbeat as he stared at her. Stared and made sure she was okay and felt something loosen and settle at the visual confirmation.
He wanted to grab her so desperately, but he breathed in once more, and slowly sank to a crouch. He sat on his heels as he stared at her across the fractured ground, breathing softly into the cold air, "That's my line, boo." He cleared his throat when his voice came out cracked, and murmured, "Are you okay?" He wanted to touch, to reassure, but he told himself not to. Give her space, give her space. Don't panic.
© MADI
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]