I KNOW THERE'S SOMETHING WAITING FOR US | fischter

[rochelle]

[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; text-align: justify; width: 65%; font-family: verdana; font-size: 11px;"]Her heartstrings are plucked with the touch, the sharp ping ping ping of the complex threads wasting away, a perfect symphony to accompany the simple tears that fell down into the sand. But some were spared of their trip to the earth below, to combine salt water with salt water. Instead, the brine was cupped by the grace of Vandal. It was an action that reminded her of where she was, embracing the other, both teary eyed and drunken with sadness and grief. And guilt. The moments of feeling like she was baring her teeth into the flesh of some poisoned fruit came and went. They were sickeningly paired with the wash of the waves, the repetitive, the constant grief, and then the tug of nothing, the release of pressure just for a few fleeting moments. But it soon came crashing over again, all over her head, her body, drenching her in a vile feeling. This wave came in a different shape, sparing the spray of tears, but instead just a violent tremble, a rush, a tsunami of anger. Did anyone truly deserve to feel this? This rage, this burden? Vandal ... Vandal didn't owe the world any of her pain, any of her suffering, so why had it been brought up so strongly?

A swirling pot of mist peered through heavy lashes, a sharply cut eyelid. But they expanded with this betrayal of anger, and the brow dragged further down, but escaping her towards the inside of her face, fleeing up. An utter look of despair, of fury, glaring out into the null expanse of everything. It had been a long time since she felt this way ... her thoughts quiet on the inside, but her body shaking, almost humming, with wrath. Like she was a totally different person ... a person from the past. Adolescent, bitter, and full of grief, a face she'd been hiding for a long time ... finally, finally exposed. But as it came with it's rumbling terror, it passed through her, rolling away like thunder in the distance. Clumps of sand seized in her grip loosened with a shaky exhale that took over her whole body, and like the pile of gritty earth, her frame seemed to slump closer to the ground. For a while, she braced for another wave of agony to take her under, fearing that the magnitude of her soul would come back stronger. So her body was kept rigid, though the side that pressed against Vandal's seemed to melt, pressing easily against the taller figure like honey. Fischer let her emotional journey pass through her privately, trying to bare the face Vandal ... needed to see.

But the surge of passion never returned, just leaving her blank, leaving her dangling in the moment. And it flees her with nothing to give back. It empties her exposed, bare and raw staring out into the sea. The hollow shell of her body left her with the remnants of panic, dread that life would not be pushed into her again. But then Vandal's there, closer, present, and the wave finally comes. This time it isn't honed and bubbling with poison, it's ardent and warm, reassuring, perhaps a bit rough around the edges, but still appearing to be round and comforting. It's the feeling of the wolf's forehead against her own, knowing that her care is realized, that her care is reciprocated, that there's no need to fear the trials and tribulations that the world is putting them all through. No, the gauntlet seems little, puny, compared to the bond she feels to Vandal. It's a surge of red, of yellow, that gives her the will to smile, one to match the look she can feel on Vandal's face. And it's a bond that's requited, and there's no need to warrant the validation for the connection between the two. It's something special, something that exists outside the spectrum of the many links and bonds of those that they know. Something that was destined to always be, like Nereides herself was writing upon the pages of her life in front of her eyes. So she doesn't shy from the embrace and takes it for what it is, sinking against the darker form.

"It must be true ..." Fischer finally whispered, unsure if her words could even reach the air of the earth, wondering if such a delicate tone could only be heard by angels. She was sure Vandal would still be able to hear her. And she, she could hear everything of Vandal. Every breath, like the wolf was exposed and open to her, and she could feel the leafy and organic expansion of her lungs. The rustle of her fur against her own, the gradient of smolder and ash into void, like they were connected and each twitch of Vandal's muscle was her own. The moment was everything she needed to return back to her mind, to be able to feel the earth under her paws ... to not feel numb anymore. "How ... how can we not be okay if we have each other?" The black smoke was speaking words of wonder, nearly tricking herself in her mind. She knew she would be okay just with the memory of Vandal, of the very presence of her existence. She knew it wasn't very healthy to rely so dearly, to tuck in someone so close to her heart, but there were no signs, no omens of a mistake to be made. The mutual emotions, just the sheer understanding between the two without communication, made it clear to her that nothing between Vandal and her would come with ill intentions or monstrous burnouts. If they faded, they would go with glory and peace, like a dying star.

But so now left in the air was the moments of the future. What would be said? What could move them on from this point, with such an outlook for repair? Fischer grasped the chance with what she could make up, for as planned as this time was in the eye's of the god, she was going with her hand on her heart and a free tongue. "I ... I won't press you, or cause you any grief ... but know that I always ..." And she tried to press her words into the right molds, face liberated and softened, tone gentle. "That I always anticipate your highs, and fear for your lows." She didn't go any further, simply curbing her message there. They'd been left open, bleeding in the sand, could they really prod deeper into their wounds. Would it be worth all of the gore and agony to retrieve the bullet, or should they allow themselves to heal with the truth embedded within them?