07-24-2018, 02:22 AM
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BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS
BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE FLAMES
Faith was a strange concept to Bastille. He believed in nothing, stood by nothing: subtle acknowledgement to the existence of the gods and divinity did not correlate to belief or faith in his mind. One did not need to be faithful to accept that something existed, and he could see gods, could touch gods; Grimm carried stories and brushes with divine power and had probably been hosted by demigods in the past, if Bastille really bothered to look through the memories, but he didn't care to. He wasn't curious. He wasn't searching. There was no god that he would stand before and plead forgiveness from.
A goddess, maybe.
There was only one thing he truly believed in with any certainty, and that was the cruel reality of fate. Fierce goddess who might rip him apart, who dictated his life, who would sink her claws into him and pull; there was no escaping the grasp of fate. He was not stupid enough to believe otherwise, and therefore he knew with steady clarity that there was no hope for him. His souls were fated for failure, and so was he. This was not something that he could or would debate, and therefore there was no higher destiny to have faith in. Bastille had no faith.
But Hazel. Hazel had faith, somehow, faith in him -- he could see it shining in her eyes, feel the warmth seep through the bond, and it was a notion that he couldn't understand. He wanted to ask her how she didn't see the threads of fate woven around him, how she didn't see the darkness in his aura: shouldn't she know? Shouldn't she know he was a loss cause, unworthy of something a delicate and pure as faith? Warring impulses: the desire to recoil, disgusted that she could actually trust him, so put off by her stooping to his level; the desire to push forward, to let her faith give him faith too, to let her be his religion; the sudden suffocating pressure on his chest, the breathlessness that could only be cured with her breath, from her lungs to his. It was a dizzying, confusing heartbeat where he looked back her at her, as he saw it and he waited and had the ridiculous notion that faith or not, she may still turn him away.
But she didn't. She didn't, and Bastille felt his air come a little easier at the realization that she wasn't angry enough to send him away, to damn him to struggling and failing on his own. It was a funny thing, the realization that he could lean on her a little bit, could trust her to be there. He thought of the heat of her skin against his and the lack of fear as she held onto him and swallowed hard, suddenly at a loss now that he knew he was allowed here, in her space. His hands were shaking and everything was just a little bit out of focus and he felt untethered for a moment, gaze following her as she shifted to her bed. [b]"Okay," he said after a moment, finding his voice weakly, throat hoarse from the abuse of vomiting that morning. He cleared it and added, after another moment, "I-- Thank you. I know you..." A pause and a bitter smile as he tilted his head down slightly, "I'm sorry. For yesterday."
He flipped the book over in his hands restlessly, and stopped at her prompt. The look he gave her one was just vaguely confused, head cocking to the side. "Read to Player?" he echoed, dubious, before he said matter of factly, "You're the only person I read to." Bastille stopped, felt vaguely as if that was a confession somehow, and added, "She just asked me about the different time periods. I wasn't going to read anything to her." He felt like he had to explain, to say that no, he read to Hazel and only Hazel, that this was still something he considered theirs. But he bit it back, still keeping a bit too exposed at the moment. He wasn't sure how she thought he would read to anyone else, but then again, wasn't that what he wanted her to think? That it didn't matter to him either way?
A goddess, maybe.
There was only one thing he truly believed in with any certainty, and that was the cruel reality of fate. Fierce goddess who might rip him apart, who dictated his life, who would sink her claws into him and pull; there was no escaping the grasp of fate. He was not stupid enough to believe otherwise, and therefore he knew with steady clarity that there was no hope for him. His souls were fated for failure, and so was he. This was not something that he could or would debate, and therefore there was no higher destiny to have faith in. Bastille had no faith.
But Hazel. Hazel had faith, somehow, faith in him -- he could see it shining in her eyes, feel the warmth seep through the bond, and it was a notion that he couldn't understand. He wanted to ask her how she didn't see the threads of fate woven around him, how she didn't see the darkness in his aura: shouldn't she know? Shouldn't she know he was a loss cause, unworthy of something a delicate and pure as faith? Warring impulses: the desire to recoil, disgusted that she could actually trust him, so put off by her stooping to his level; the desire to push forward, to let her faith give him faith too, to let her be his religion; the sudden suffocating pressure on his chest, the breathlessness that could only be cured with her breath, from her lungs to his. It was a dizzying, confusing heartbeat where he looked back her at her, as he saw it and he waited and had the ridiculous notion that faith or not, she may still turn him away.
But she didn't. She didn't, and Bastille felt his air come a little easier at the realization that she wasn't angry enough to send him away, to damn him to struggling and failing on his own. It was a funny thing, the realization that he could lean on her a little bit, could trust her to be there. He thought of the heat of her skin against his and the lack of fear as she held onto him and swallowed hard, suddenly at a loss now that he knew he was allowed here, in her space. His hands were shaking and everything was just a little bit out of focus and he felt untethered for a moment, gaze following her as she shifted to her bed. [b]"Okay," he said after a moment, finding his voice weakly, throat hoarse from the abuse of vomiting that morning. He cleared it and added, after another moment, "I-- Thank you. I know you..." A pause and a bitter smile as he tilted his head down slightly, "I'm sorry. For yesterday."
He flipped the book over in his hands restlessly, and stopped at her prompt. The look he gave her one was just vaguely confused, head cocking to the side. "Read to Player?" he echoed, dubious, before he said matter of factly, "You're the only person I read to." Bastille stopped, felt vaguely as if that was a confession somehow, and added, "She just asked me about the different time periods. I wasn't going to read anything to her." He felt like he had to explain, to say that no, he read to Hazel and only Hazel, that this was still something he considered theirs. But he bit it back, still keeping a bit too exposed at the moment. He wasn't sure how she thought he would read to anyone else, but then again, wasn't that what he wanted her to think? That it didn't matter to him either way?
[B]ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — [color=#e2e2e2]TAGS — [color=#e2e2e2]MOODBOARD — [color=#e2e2e2]PLAYLIST
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]