05-03-2018, 04:11 PM
[align=center]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
She couldn’t decide if her initial surprise came from the fact that he didn’t move to block her swing, or if it was because he didn’t block her swing.
Hazel always knew that he would outmatch her when it came to combat. It would never come as a surprise or an advantage he used against her - it just was. However, the one token she held over him was swordplay, even if she was sure he could hold his own in a sword fight. Because of this, when she lunged for him, she had imagined him ducking out of the way or raising any sort of weapon or power in his defense. But he didn’t. Bastille simply fucking stood there and took it.
The sound of ripping fabric was like a slap to her ears. It broke a little something inside of her, knowing that she was hurting him. It broke her heart, her soul, her memory of him. She could see the red glint of his blood on the edge of her sword. Hazel could watch as it slid down the blade and over the hilt, dripping across her forearm and painting itself there: a sticky, hot, unremovable tattoo. A brand. Hazel was crossing a line, and she knew it. She knew it, somewhere in the back of her head, that this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
And yet? Hazel didn’t stop.
She didn’t stop when she noticed him stand his ground, his face some sort of cross between apathy and a concentrated amount of certain sadness. She didn’t stop when the blood seeped onto his clothes, bleeding through his shirt. She didn’t stop when she realized she had never seen him do absolutely nothing. The anger knotted in her chest, the hurt, was too much, too hot - it tinted her vision, tinted her mind.
It was the glowing fury and guilt of leaving that bypassed some sort of firewall in her mind. The firewall used to be impassable, but now…? Now, adrenaline was pumping through her veins, feeding her frustration and clouding her mind.
Had her mind been clear, Hazel might have reflected on the underlying reasons for her upset. Was she truly mad at Bastille for sending Dahlia away? No. She couldn’t be, because in the end, Dahlia had murdered someone and sunk to the depths of Hell and truly deserved her punishment. No, she couldn’t hate him for that. But she could be miffed and offended and furious that she had been cut out of the loop when it came to knowing about Dahlia.
Back in those days, Bastille, Dahlia, and Hazel were the only remnants of the old Eden. They were the last surviving members; the very final piece of the place that had become her first home. Not only that, but Hazel had a very personal, very deep emotional connection with both, each of them touching her mind and soul in a different way. So…yeah, it stung a little when she learned Bastille hadn’t come to her when faced with Dahlia’s dilemma. It stung a lot when the two people closest to her didn’t come to her or ask for help, despite knowing that any sort of decision would influence them all.
Hazel would have been more than willing to help Bastille come to a conclusion. Didn’t...didn’t he know that? Had she not proved that on multiple occasions? He had brushed past her like he didn’t know who she was - stepped right up to the top of that pedestal and begun the trial like he had begun life in Eden: apathetic and cold with fact, sheltering his internal war with an icy facade.
So no, Hazel didn’t care that Bastille had been the one to exile Dahlia. Hazel cared about the line of trust that had seemingly snapped between them, leaving her confused and lost and in the dark and wondering where it had gone all wrong.
Hurt and broken, Hazel swung again. Only this time, not only did Bastille block the swing, he caught it. Caught it right against his palm. Hazel could feel the blade sink into his skin. But he still looked empty, still looked nonplussed, and she found that it was his absolute indifference that prevented her from stopping.
Immediately adjusting her grip, Hazel made to tug her sword away, but was instead thrown backwards by an intense burst of air against her chest. A small noise escaped her throat as she hit the ground, her sword skittering a few yards out of reach. (For the better, really.)
Hazel was on her feet before she really recovered, standing shaky and winded. She wasn’t sure what her next move would have been had he not opened his mouth - would she storm off into the woods? Or would she whistle for Arion? Maybe she’d pick up her blade and keep swinging, keep fighting off the memories of Eden that she’d worked so hard to lock away. Maybe...maybe she’d sit down and draw her knees into her chest and cry for the old days, for what they had lost. For what she had ruined.
But Bastille did speak. Only, it wasn’t Bastille, but Echo. And it hardly took Hazel more than a second to realize it, considering the nickname and what he said was something Bastille would never, ever say to her. Echo brought a whole breath of fury that flared in her aura, though it was different. She would never make peace with Echo - ever. That was just a straight fact, and one Hazel didn’t feel guilty about. Just the sight of him - the change in demeanor - was enough to stir her own restless souls.
“No worries,” Hazel spit through grit teeth. “The feeling is mutual.”
She might have said more, might have snarked about how impressed she was with the lack of turmoil in the transition, but her attention was drawn elsewhere as Echo lost his grip. As the earth splintered, Hazel felt an ancient sense of familiar throb in her heart, though it might have also been fondness. It was something she had seen before; a sign, one might say, that Bastille wasn’t completely emotionless to the whole ordeal. It was...comforting?
Then he spoke, and this time, it wasn’t a different soul. It was Bastille, his voice flat and toneless.
He agreed with her. He knew what she did, he knew she left him on his own. Jesus Christ, of course he did. And a smaller, crueler part of Hazel wanted to snap that she shouldn’t have had to buoy him up the entire time. But she didn’t, because the frustration behind it was false. Hazel had always found comfort in knowing that Bastille needed her. She could never hate helping him take care of himself, or looking after him when he was incapable.
Hazel clenched her fists, restless but unsure of what to do. Part of her was enjoying hearing his voice again - hearing so much of it, even though it was dead and stoic. The other part of her - the majority part - was still crumbling, forgetting how profound Bastille could get with his words. How deep they could cut. Tears clogged her throat, but were unwilling to rise fully.
So she spoke instead.
“You’re right,” Hazel said bitterly, unaware that she had echoed him. “I didn’t look back when I left. Want to know why?” No, he didn’t. Probably never would. “Because nothing would have changed if I had stayed. The demons still would have wiped Eden out. I didn’t make a difference.” Her voice wobbled.
Her fault then, yeah? Hazel’s fists curled tighter. “So what if I did? So what if I played right into her hands? So what if it was all my fault for being completely left out of the loop, for not being told what the hell was going on, and not being able to get close enough to you to ask and expect a decent response? So what, Bastille? What do you want from me? It’s over and Eden’s gone and if you want to blame me, then go right the fuck ahead.” She growled. “You know I would have helped if I’d gotten an explanation. You know that, somewhere, because that’s what I’ve always done. That’s how it used to be.” Hazel stared hard at the ground, and sucked in a deep, painful breath. “We fucked up somewhere. The death of Eden falls to both of us.” She amended. Her voice was sad and angry and had dropped in volume, because who was she to point fingers? She left a crumbling pillar standing with no support. In one way or the other, it would have fallen. That was just gravity.
Hazel breathed in and out, her mind so overwhelmed it all turned to white noise. She wanted the old life back so badly; wanted him back. Wanted the both so much that it ached. Hazel loved them both, and had lost them both. She was shaking with the indecision, with the exhaustion and anger of it all.
But Hazel couldn’t stay angry forever.
It wasn’t in her blood; it wasn’t written in her soul.
Eventually, she gave up. Gave up because she knew she couldn’t have him, or Eden. Gave up because she was done and she was tired. There was no fuel to her fire anymore. She had burned up her entire store. So the fight seeped out of her shoulders, and she dug her nails into her palm once more before letting go. She raised weary, faded eyes to Bastille, ready to tell him to do as he pleased - to yell or go off or leave or get back at her, she didn’t care - but instead found the boy covered in red.
The panic set in immediately. Hazel had lost her grip on the fact she’d cut him to ribbons in her haze. He talked like he was fine, like he wasn’t about to bleed to death. And Hazel might have been ready to let him leave and expect to never see him again - he seemed to want that much - but she was not prepared to see him die. Dread washed over her, cold and icy.
“Shit, shit -” She cursed, adrenaline somehow managing to make it back into her veins. On instinct, she raised shaky fingers to her mouth and blew against them, only to have it backfire and sound like a harsh sigh. A few choice Latin expletives rolled off her tongue, and she tried it again. This time the sound came out loud and clear, ringing in her ears.
“Fuck, look what I did, look at what I - why are you still standing, sit down,” She said, borderline whining at him because why was he like this. “Arion’ll be here in just a second, and there’s some extra cloth in his saddlebags, but there’s nothing around for miles and we don’t have proper supplies and Deus, I’m such a moron - “ Hazel rambled, moving towards Bastille, heedless of the danger he still presented to her.
She stopped before him, hesitating and knowing she should ask before she did anything. But....this was Bastille, and knowing him, he’d refuse her help, saying he deserved it, that he didn’t care. But Hazel did. Hazel still cared for him a great deal, despite having sliced him nine ways from Sunday.
So she asked...after she started working, assuming he actually sat down.
“I’m so sorry,” She whispered. She knelt next to him, taking the strip of cloth from around her waist to press against his chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m - let me help, please.” Her quieted even further. “I won’t leave you like this - I’m not going to break our promise. Remember?” Her gaze flicked to his for a fraction of a second. “Remember what we promised?”
ooc aAAH HH SORRY I COULDN'T WRITE MORE I NEEDED TO LEAVE FOR HORSEBACK LIKE TEN MINUTES AGO
Hazel always knew that he would outmatch her when it came to combat. It would never come as a surprise or an advantage he used against her - it just was. However, the one token she held over him was swordplay, even if she was sure he could hold his own in a sword fight. Because of this, when she lunged for him, she had imagined him ducking out of the way or raising any sort of weapon or power in his defense. But he didn’t. Bastille simply fucking stood there and took it.
The sound of ripping fabric was like a slap to her ears. It broke a little something inside of her, knowing that she was hurting him. It broke her heart, her soul, her memory of him. She could see the red glint of his blood on the edge of her sword. Hazel could watch as it slid down the blade and over the hilt, dripping across her forearm and painting itself there: a sticky, hot, unremovable tattoo. A brand. Hazel was crossing a line, and she knew it. She knew it, somewhere in the back of her head, that this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
And yet? Hazel didn’t stop.
She didn’t stop when she noticed him stand his ground, his face some sort of cross between apathy and a concentrated amount of certain sadness. She didn’t stop when the blood seeped onto his clothes, bleeding through his shirt. She didn’t stop when she realized she had never seen him do absolutely nothing. The anger knotted in her chest, the hurt, was too much, too hot - it tinted her vision, tinted her mind.
It was the glowing fury and guilt of leaving that bypassed some sort of firewall in her mind. The firewall used to be impassable, but now…? Now, adrenaline was pumping through her veins, feeding her frustration and clouding her mind.
Had her mind been clear, Hazel might have reflected on the underlying reasons for her upset. Was she truly mad at Bastille for sending Dahlia away? No. She couldn’t be, because in the end, Dahlia had murdered someone and sunk to the depths of Hell and truly deserved her punishment. No, she couldn’t hate him for that. But she could be miffed and offended and furious that she had been cut out of the loop when it came to knowing about Dahlia.
Back in those days, Bastille, Dahlia, and Hazel were the only remnants of the old Eden. They were the last surviving members; the very final piece of the place that had become her first home. Not only that, but Hazel had a very personal, very deep emotional connection with both, each of them touching her mind and soul in a different way. So…yeah, it stung a little when she learned Bastille hadn’t come to her when faced with Dahlia’s dilemma. It stung a lot when the two people closest to her didn’t come to her or ask for help, despite knowing that any sort of decision would influence them all.
Hazel would have been more than willing to help Bastille come to a conclusion. Didn’t...didn’t he know that? Had she not proved that on multiple occasions? He had brushed past her like he didn’t know who she was - stepped right up to the top of that pedestal and begun the trial like he had begun life in Eden: apathetic and cold with fact, sheltering his internal war with an icy facade.
So no, Hazel didn’t care that Bastille had been the one to exile Dahlia. Hazel cared about the line of trust that had seemingly snapped between them, leaving her confused and lost and in the dark and wondering where it had gone all wrong.
Hurt and broken, Hazel swung again. Only this time, not only did Bastille block the swing, he caught it. Caught it right against his palm. Hazel could feel the blade sink into his skin. But he still looked empty, still looked nonplussed, and she found that it was his absolute indifference that prevented her from stopping.
Immediately adjusting her grip, Hazel made to tug her sword away, but was instead thrown backwards by an intense burst of air against her chest. A small noise escaped her throat as she hit the ground, her sword skittering a few yards out of reach. (For the better, really.)
Hazel was on her feet before she really recovered, standing shaky and winded. She wasn’t sure what her next move would have been had he not opened his mouth - would she storm off into the woods? Or would she whistle for Arion? Maybe she’d pick up her blade and keep swinging, keep fighting off the memories of Eden that she’d worked so hard to lock away. Maybe...maybe she’d sit down and draw her knees into her chest and cry for the old days, for what they had lost. For what she had ruined.
But Bastille did speak. Only, it wasn’t Bastille, but Echo. And it hardly took Hazel more than a second to realize it, considering the nickname and what he said was something Bastille would never, ever say to her. Echo brought a whole breath of fury that flared in her aura, though it was different. She would never make peace with Echo - ever. That was just a straight fact, and one Hazel didn’t feel guilty about. Just the sight of him - the change in demeanor - was enough to stir her own restless souls.
“No worries,” Hazel spit through grit teeth. “The feeling is mutual.”
She might have said more, might have snarked about how impressed she was with the lack of turmoil in the transition, but her attention was drawn elsewhere as Echo lost his grip. As the earth splintered, Hazel felt an ancient sense of familiar throb in her heart, though it might have also been fondness. It was something she had seen before; a sign, one might say, that Bastille wasn’t completely emotionless to the whole ordeal. It was...comforting?
Then he spoke, and this time, it wasn’t a different soul. It was Bastille, his voice flat and toneless.
He agreed with her. He knew what she did, he knew she left him on his own. Jesus Christ, of course he did. And a smaller, crueler part of Hazel wanted to snap that she shouldn’t have had to buoy him up the entire time. But she didn’t, because the frustration behind it was false. Hazel had always found comfort in knowing that Bastille needed her. She could never hate helping him take care of himself, or looking after him when he was incapable.
Hazel clenched her fists, restless but unsure of what to do. Part of her was enjoying hearing his voice again - hearing so much of it, even though it was dead and stoic. The other part of her - the majority part - was still crumbling, forgetting how profound Bastille could get with his words. How deep they could cut. Tears clogged her throat, but were unwilling to rise fully.
So she spoke instead.
“You’re right,” Hazel said bitterly, unaware that she had echoed him. “I didn’t look back when I left. Want to know why?” No, he didn’t. Probably never would. “Because nothing would have changed if I had stayed. The demons still would have wiped Eden out. I didn’t make a difference.” Her voice wobbled.
Her fault then, yeah? Hazel’s fists curled tighter. “So what if I did? So what if I played right into her hands? So what if it was all my fault for being completely left out of the loop, for not being told what the hell was going on, and not being able to get close enough to you to ask and expect a decent response? So what, Bastille? What do you want from me? It’s over and Eden’s gone and if you want to blame me, then go right the fuck ahead.” She growled. “You know I would have helped if I’d gotten an explanation. You know that, somewhere, because that’s what I’ve always done. That’s how it used to be.” Hazel stared hard at the ground, and sucked in a deep, painful breath. “We fucked up somewhere. The death of Eden falls to both of us.” She amended. Her voice was sad and angry and had dropped in volume, because who was she to point fingers? She left a crumbling pillar standing with no support. In one way or the other, it would have fallen. That was just gravity.
Hazel breathed in and out, her mind so overwhelmed it all turned to white noise. She wanted the old life back so badly; wanted him back. Wanted the both so much that it ached. Hazel loved them both, and had lost them both. She was shaking with the indecision, with the exhaustion and anger of it all.
But Hazel couldn’t stay angry forever.
It wasn’t in her blood; it wasn’t written in her soul.
Eventually, she gave up. Gave up because she knew she couldn’t have him, or Eden. Gave up because she was done and she was tired. There was no fuel to her fire anymore. She had burned up her entire store. So the fight seeped out of her shoulders, and she dug her nails into her palm once more before letting go. She raised weary, faded eyes to Bastille, ready to tell him to do as he pleased - to yell or go off or leave or get back at her, she didn’t care - but instead found the boy covered in red.
The panic set in immediately. Hazel had lost her grip on the fact she’d cut him to ribbons in her haze. He talked like he was fine, like he wasn’t about to bleed to death. And Hazel might have been ready to let him leave and expect to never see him again - he seemed to want that much - but she was not prepared to see him die. Dread washed over her, cold and icy.
“Shit, shit -” She cursed, adrenaline somehow managing to make it back into her veins. On instinct, she raised shaky fingers to her mouth and blew against them, only to have it backfire and sound like a harsh sigh. A few choice Latin expletives rolled off her tongue, and she tried it again. This time the sound came out loud and clear, ringing in her ears.
“Fuck, look what I did, look at what I - why are you still standing, sit down,” She said, borderline whining at him because why was he like this. “Arion’ll be here in just a second, and there’s some extra cloth in his saddlebags, but there’s nothing around for miles and we don’t have proper supplies and Deus, I’m such a moron - “ Hazel rambled, moving towards Bastille, heedless of the danger he still presented to her.
She stopped before him, hesitating and knowing she should ask before she did anything. But....this was Bastille, and knowing him, he’d refuse her help, saying he deserved it, that he didn’t care. But Hazel did. Hazel still cared for him a great deal, despite having sliced him nine ways from Sunday.
So she asked...after she started working, assuming he actually sat down.
“I’m so sorry,” She whispered. She knelt next to him, taking the strip of cloth from around her waist to press against his chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m - let me help, please.” Her quieted even further. “I won’t leave you like this - I’m not going to break our promise. Remember?” Her gaze flicked to his for a fraction of a second. “Remember what we promised?”
ooc aAAH HH SORRY I COULDN'T WRITE MORE I NEEDED TO LEAVE FOR HORSEBACK LIKE TEN MINUTES AGO
[align=center]
WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better