08-27-2018, 01:33 AM
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BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS
BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE FLAMES
His breath left him in a soft exhale as he simply looked at them for a moment, the full force of their auras so telling up-close, no longer filtering through grubby basement walls. He had greeted them before he could even truly get his bearings for what he might find; he knew, deep down, that he would find them waiting here peacefully, expectant, just as he always found his clients, but there had been a tiny shred of doubt, as if he might show up to find them already gone. He had lost Margy once that way already, and he wasn't prepared to losing anyone else without saying goodbye, without saying everything that he needed to say. Things had been too brief with Starry, and nonexistent with so many others: Berry, Dawn, Indi. As much as he felt a gentle sort of dread at having to say goodbye, he could be happy that he was given the chance to.
The Latin was soft, lilting in his ears; it made his throat tighten slightly to think that there was ever a time where he might have resenting hearing it from her lips. He took another shaky breath and reminded himself to stay calm as she continued speaking, only nodding once in confirmation that he knew, he did; even as she said it he could feel that cool clarity blanketing him once more, tightening up his composure. They were more than just his mothers, here: they were his clients, they were lost souls who needed something, who needed him, Grimm. He couldn't fail them, even if he wanted to.
He should have been ready for the French as well, but somehow it still took him off guard, the sudden fresh flush of reminder of Frenchpaw. His stare was open and exposed as he looked to Suite for a moment, as he looked at her and realized that he couldn't feel the welled up frustration or resentment— not when she was reaching back, bringing him back in at the end of it all. Forgiveness was a hard lesson for him, and always had been, but she was extending that to him now and it... broke something in him, a little bit, broke through the blank canvas of the host and spoke to the boy inside.
It was worse, somehow, hearing Hazel's name, but he swallowed the faint swell of emotion and simply exhaled once more, voice slightly raspy as he said a little shakily, [b]"Your souls are heavy. I don't... I don't want to lose you, but— I get it. You've reached the end of your stories." He swallowed, felt briefly at a loss, unable to find words in the response to such blatant love. The notion that someone else could care for him so much stilled his tongue, made him struggle to remember that he had a greater purpose here than simply saying goodbye. He was... overwhelmed, momentarily, by the intensity of what they could force him to feel, and it was in that moment as he looked at both of them silently that he realized he wasn't alone in the feeling.
Pollutedsoul had never truly known what it meant to feel at home in a family. Zaniel had forced his way into acceptance in the Bellators, had been desperate enough to fill a role and find his place, but Pollie could never achieve even that pseudo-familial bond. For him there was only the continuous urge to follow his cousin around or chase after uninterested siblings or trail his busy mother through camp; for him there was the itch under his skin, the unrelenting drive for family that was never quite explained until in the darkness he found his memories of Isaac restored — until the madness took him, the deranged need for his family to love him had sank in. It was that need that fueled so much of his anger at Suite, at Margy, at everyone.
But this was love. This was acceptance. This was a family that he — that Bast had pushed away and brought back in again and again. This was mother looking at him and loving him despite it all, despite turning him away, and he was... he was lost in it, for several moments unable to discern for himself who he was. He felt the rush of bitterness and sorrow and the withered memories of the past and he felt it all release, gradually; his eyes were a mismatched green and blue as he said, soft, "I... you've always accepted me. I didn't think you could love me, and you did." It didn't matter who felt it, who spoke; in the end Bastille was still Pollie just as much as Pollie was Bastille, and the words rang true as he breathed, "Thank you."
When he blinked, that pale blue was back, and he felt... lighter, more centered, the cloudiness of his mingled thoughts clearing in the slightest. It didn't make finding his words any easier, and he stalled for a moment, swallowing tightly. "I love you too. I know I could have been better, but I will be. I promise. I will be better for you, because I couldn't be before, and I'll—" a shaky exhale "—I'll... For Hazel, and the kids, and all of them. You don't have to worry about them." He smiled, faintly, weakly; he had no idea how he could offer this, something he was so uncertain of, but he had to try. They wouldn't want to go knowing they were leaving everyone without some promise.
He closed his eyes, then, struggling to choke back the pain as he felt that soft draw pulling on him. Margy had said he knew, and he did, he did; he could feel it, feel the whisper of Grimm coming to the surface, the host rising. "Your stories will be carried through generations," he said, quiet, "They will be immortalized in your stead, so that you can rest without the burden of carrying them any longer. You won't... you won't be forgotten. Even when I cannot be here to remember you, there will always be another host keeping everything that you are alive."
His voice faltered him again, then, and he breathed out once more as he opened his eyes again, pale green shining briefly before his irises melted back to blue. He looked at them and held fast to the memory, the realization that these were his last moments to see them, and asked shakily, "Are you... are you ready?"
The Latin was soft, lilting in his ears; it made his throat tighten slightly to think that there was ever a time where he might have resenting hearing it from her lips. He took another shaky breath and reminded himself to stay calm as she continued speaking, only nodding once in confirmation that he knew, he did; even as she said it he could feel that cool clarity blanketing him once more, tightening up his composure. They were more than just his mothers, here: they were his clients, they were lost souls who needed something, who needed him, Grimm. He couldn't fail them, even if he wanted to.
He should have been ready for the French as well, but somehow it still took him off guard, the sudden fresh flush of reminder of Frenchpaw. His stare was open and exposed as he looked to Suite for a moment, as he looked at her and realized that he couldn't feel the welled up frustration or resentment— not when she was reaching back, bringing him back in at the end of it all. Forgiveness was a hard lesson for him, and always had been, but she was extending that to him now and it... broke something in him, a little bit, broke through the blank canvas of the host and spoke to the boy inside.
It was worse, somehow, hearing Hazel's name, but he swallowed the faint swell of emotion and simply exhaled once more, voice slightly raspy as he said a little shakily, [b]"Your souls are heavy. I don't... I don't want to lose you, but— I get it. You've reached the end of your stories." He swallowed, felt briefly at a loss, unable to find words in the response to such blatant love. The notion that someone else could care for him so much stilled his tongue, made him struggle to remember that he had a greater purpose here than simply saying goodbye. He was... overwhelmed, momentarily, by the intensity of what they could force him to feel, and it was in that moment as he looked at both of them silently that he realized he wasn't alone in the feeling.
Pollutedsoul had never truly known what it meant to feel at home in a family. Zaniel had forced his way into acceptance in the Bellators, had been desperate enough to fill a role and find his place, but Pollie could never achieve even that pseudo-familial bond. For him there was only the continuous urge to follow his cousin around or chase after uninterested siblings or trail his busy mother through camp; for him there was the itch under his skin, the unrelenting drive for family that was never quite explained until in the darkness he found his memories of Isaac restored — until the madness took him, the deranged need for his family to love him had sank in. It was that need that fueled so much of his anger at Suite, at Margy, at everyone.
But this was love. This was acceptance. This was a family that he — that Bast had pushed away and brought back in again and again. This was mother looking at him and loving him despite it all, despite turning him away, and he was... he was lost in it, for several moments unable to discern for himself who he was. He felt the rush of bitterness and sorrow and the withered memories of the past and he felt it all release, gradually; his eyes were a mismatched green and blue as he said, soft, "I... you've always accepted me. I didn't think you could love me, and you did." It didn't matter who felt it, who spoke; in the end Bastille was still Pollie just as much as Pollie was Bastille, and the words rang true as he breathed, "Thank you."
When he blinked, that pale blue was back, and he felt... lighter, more centered, the cloudiness of his mingled thoughts clearing in the slightest. It didn't make finding his words any easier, and he stalled for a moment, swallowing tightly. "I love you too. I know I could have been better, but I will be. I promise. I will be better for you, because I couldn't be before, and I'll—" a shaky exhale "—I'll... For Hazel, and the kids, and all of them. You don't have to worry about them." He smiled, faintly, weakly; he had no idea how he could offer this, something he was so uncertain of, but he had to try. They wouldn't want to go knowing they were leaving everyone without some promise.
He closed his eyes, then, struggling to choke back the pain as he felt that soft draw pulling on him. Margy had said he knew, and he did, he did; he could feel it, feel the whisper of Grimm coming to the surface, the host rising. "Your stories will be carried through generations," he said, quiet, "They will be immortalized in your stead, so that you can rest without the burden of carrying them any longer. You won't... you won't be forgotten. Even when I cannot be here to remember you, there will always be another host keeping everything that you are alive."
His voice faltered him again, then, and he breathed out once more as he opened his eyes again, pale green shining briefly before his irises melted back to blue. He looked at them and held fast to the memory, the realization that these were his last moments to see them, and asked shakily, "Are you... are you ready?"
[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]