05-05-2018, 08:46 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-05-2018, 08:52 PM by BASTILLEPAW.)
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That faint tinge of light-headedness was getting stronger, a faint prickling in his temple as his wounds throbbed idly in time with his heartbeat. He was losing blood quickly, but he didn't move, made no effort to change that; O had wandered several feet away, disturbed by the swinging sword, and Bastille wondered absently if Hazel would take care of her. She had always liked Octavia, and he didn't think she had it in her to abandoned the Arabian on her own; she had a soft spot for horses, and presumably still cared about O, even if she clearly didn't like him very much any more. Ironically, Hazel had brought him the solution he'd lacked for months: he had to keep himself alive because he cared about O's well being, and she happened to be the one person he could trust to take care of her as well as the one person actively trying to kill him. Maybe Fate did exist.
The tangent side thoughts snapped and coiled away as she spoke again, and Bast just looked back at her. He wondered how she could think she wouldn't have made a difference, but he didn't have the energy to argue with her; his vision was getting spotty, and he was very, very slightly swaying. It could easily be passed off as a shifting of his weight, but in reality he was just fading very, very rapidly.
"How was I supposed to tell you, Hazel? There was nothing I could do to give you any warning. Hell, I didn't even get an explanation from her. I had to bring her straight from the fucking murder, before the evidence disappeared or she vanished. You can hate me all you want for springing it on you, but you're forgetting that she sprung it on me, too. And I couldn't just ask her why because there was no one else who could run the trial. I should have recused myself for being too close to the situation, but I couldn't, because she fucking knew that there wasn't a Judge and that I'd have to do it myself and--"
He took a breathe, forcing himself to calm down as that little flame of anger burned in his gut. He could swear the escalation of his pulse made him bleed out faster, before he was feeling even more faint as he muttered, "I had to be impassive, Hazel. The judge can't have a stake in things, and I couldn't let anyone think I was letting my personal feelings infect the proceedings. I didn't get to be Bastilleprisoner. I had to be the fucking law, and the law doesn't get to have emotions or stop to ask questions about why." He shook his head, and then regretted it; he already felt dizzy, and now it was worse. "I couldn't have given you an explanation, Haze. There was no time and I didn't even have one for myself."
The sudden shift in her aura was palpable; he could feel the anger diminishing, the tension leaving her shoulders. He wasn't really ready for the switch up, though -- he found himself simply staring at her in confusion at the sudden panic and concern, at a loss of what to do at the emergence of... his Hazel. The Hazel he hadn't seen in years, literally; the Hazel that had disappeared from him long before the girl actually left Eden. It was... strangely comforting, in a morbid way. Maybe he could only have her back when it was going to lose her again.
He was too hazy and sluggish to really do anything than abide by her demands, letting her push him down (it was more of a stumble before he slid down against the tree) and start yanking at the remains of his shirt. He was still just staring, gaze flickering over her face -- so close, he could smell her familiarity and see the fine details of her eyes this close. His stare had gone half-lidded, his head spinning, everything too blurry to process much of what she was saying. Hell, he must have been losing blood faster than he thought, because he could swear he could feel her warmth seeping into his sink and setting it alight with golden sunshine. When had Hazel abandoned the icy hatred for this warmth?
He blinked back at her, struck by the sudden intensity of her stare focused on him, but he didn't need to be reminded of exactly what promise she was talking about. He didn't get a chance to respond, though. He had almost missed it, disorientated as he was, too out of it to sense the sudden rise of twisted bitterness surging through him-- The clambering, grimy assault from Pollutedsoul out of no where--
There was a faint flicker in his dead eyes as he realized, as he silently swore over his slip in focus and control. Bastille suddenly jerked, doubling over slightly as his fingers fisted in his hair, teeth gritted as he struggling to fight Pollutedsoul back. It was too late, and his control was too weak to fight him off, nor had he ever experienced such a vicious surge from a soul before-- "Fuck, no, nononono--" he swore through his teeth, clenching his hair harder as if the additional pain might ground him, but there was nothing he could do.
Pollutedsoul slouched back against the tree, and reveling in his success. When the boy let his bloody hands drop, he tilted his head up and stared straight at Hazel with odd, mismatched eyes -- gone was ice blue, replaced by one green and one blue (a much warmer shade than Bastille's, but someone eery). Oh, yes -- he'd been waiting for this. There was a dark, vicious anger brewing in his gut, the bitter sense of betrayal that she'd left them, that she'd attacked them. A love trying to escape, but Pollie would not lose another; she wouldn't get away from, either. If he could kill the first, he could kill the second.
He shouldn't be able to move too much with so much blood loss, but he didn't need to. And beyond that? That was a deranged madness about Pollutedsoul that lent him a determined steadiness. The boy lunged at her, trying to tackle her to the ground in an awkward, desperate attack. His bloody palms were scrambling, first assuring that he had her pinned under him, his knees digging into her sides viciously, then seeking out her throat with a feral grin. He pressed down savagely on her windpipe, leaning in close to her with a dark, psychotic stare fixed on her golden eyes. "Sorry, birdie," he breathed, "I'm not going to keep that promise. I'm going to keep you for-ever, instead. You can't leave me again, then, can you?"
Pollie did not seem to draw the same lines of distinction between himself and Bastille, not in the way that Echo appeared to. No, to him, they were all one and the same; the anguish and betrayal of one was his, devoured by his greedy, tormented soul. There was a fluid connection between them all, a shared experience; an attack against Bastille was an attack against them, and he felt something nasty towards this girl for trying to kill them. More than that, though, there was an aching pain over her abandonment -- it was all too familiar for Pollie, and he hated her.
He may be able to slaughter his love in cold blood, to revel in it, but he was still Bastille, somewhere -- and Bastille would sooner die than fucking harm Hazel. There was a tight, desperate squeeze of his fingers as Pollutedsoul felt the sudden surge, and then his grip went lax as his irises chill into soft blue once more, the psycho fucker jerked backwards.
"Haze," Bast murmured, still so close to her, his voice weak with the horrible dizziness as his hands slipped away from her throat, his weight falling to his elbows as they bracketed her head. There was a crushing regret there, for not being able to stop Pollie, for having to look down at her and see her trapped under him, but more importantly there was the cloying darkness pulling him down. He couldn't handle two swaps and this much blood loss all together; his lashes fluttered as his eyes closed, and he lost consciousness almost as quickly as he had regained control.
Unfortunately, that meant Hazel got all of his weight; fortunately, he was already so close to her, practically resting on her already, that it wasn't like there was much impact from the collapse.
That faint tinge of light-headedness was getting stronger, a faint prickling in his temple as his wounds throbbed idly in time with his heartbeat. He was losing blood quickly, but he didn't move, made no effort to change that; O had wandered several feet away, disturbed by the swinging sword, and Bastille wondered absently if Hazel would take care of her. She had always liked Octavia, and he didn't think she had it in her to abandoned the Arabian on her own; she had a soft spot for horses, and presumably still cared about O, even if she clearly didn't like him very much any more. Ironically, Hazel had brought him the solution he'd lacked for months: he had to keep himself alive because he cared about O's well being, and she happened to be the one person he could trust to take care of her as well as the one person actively trying to kill him. Maybe Fate did exist.
The tangent side thoughts snapped and coiled away as she spoke again, and Bast just looked back at her. He wondered how she could think she wouldn't have made a difference, but he didn't have the energy to argue with her; his vision was getting spotty, and he was very, very slightly swaying. It could easily be passed off as a shifting of his weight, but in reality he was just fading very, very rapidly.
"How was I supposed to tell you, Hazel? There was nothing I could do to give you any warning. Hell, I didn't even get an explanation from her. I had to bring her straight from the fucking murder, before the evidence disappeared or she vanished. You can hate me all you want for springing it on you, but you're forgetting that she sprung it on me, too. And I couldn't just ask her why because there was no one else who could run the trial. I should have recused myself for being too close to the situation, but I couldn't, because she fucking knew that there wasn't a Judge and that I'd have to do it myself and--"
He took a breathe, forcing himself to calm down as that little flame of anger burned in his gut. He could swear the escalation of his pulse made him bleed out faster, before he was feeling even more faint as he muttered, "I had to be impassive, Hazel. The judge can't have a stake in things, and I couldn't let anyone think I was letting my personal feelings infect the proceedings. I didn't get to be Bastilleprisoner. I had to be the fucking law, and the law doesn't get to have emotions or stop to ask questions about why." He shook his head, and then regretted it; he already felt dizzy, and now it was worse. "I couldn't have given you an explanation, Haze. There was no time and I didn't even have one for myself."
The sudden shift in her aura was palpable; he could feel the anger diminishing, the tension leaving her shoulders. He wasn't really ready for the switch up, though -- he found himself simply staring at her in confusion at the sudden panic and concern, at a loss of what to do at the emergence of... his Hazel. The Hazel he hadn't seen in years, literally; the Hazel that had disappeared from him long before the girl actually left Eden. It was... strangely comforting, in a morbid way. Maybe he could only have her back when it was going to lose her again.
He was too hazy and sluggish to really do anything than abide by her demands, letting her push him down (it was more of a stumble before he slid down against the tree) and start yanking at the remains of his shirt. He was still just staring, gaze flickering over her face -- so close, he could smell her familiarity and see the fine details of her eyes this close. His stare had gone half-lidded, his head spinning, everything too blurry to process much of what she was saying. Hell, he must have been losing blood faster than he thought, because he could swear he could feel her warmth seeping into his sink and setting it alight with golden sunshine. When had Hazel abandoned the icy hatred for this warmth?
He blinked back at her, struck by the sudden intensity of her stare focused on him, but he didn't need to be reminded of exactly what promise she was talking about. He didn't get a chance to respond, though. He had almost missed it, disorientated as he was, too out of it to sense the sudden rise of twisted bitterness surging through him-- The clambering, grimy assault from Pollutedsoul out of no where--
There was a faint flicker in his dead eyes as he realized, as he silently swore over his slip in focus and control. Bastille suddenly jerked, doubling over slightly as his fingers fisted in his hair, teeth gritted as he struggling to fight Pollutedsoul back. It was too late, and his control was too weak to fight him off, nor had he ever experienced such a vicious surge from a soul before-- "Fuck, no, nononono--" he swore through his teeth, clenching his hair harder as if the additional pain might ground him, but there was nothing he could do.
Pollutedsoul slouched back against the tree, and reveling in his success. When the boy let his bloody hands drop, he tilted his head up and stared straight at Hazel with odd, mismatched eyes -- gone was ice blue, replaced by one green and one blue (a much warmer shade than Bastille's, but someone eery). Oh, yes -- he'd been waiting for this. There was a dark, vicious anger brewing in his gut, the bitter sense of betrayal that she'd left them, that she'd attacked them. A love trying to escape, but Pollie would not lose another; she wouldn't get away from, either. If he could kill the first, he could kill the second.
He shouldn't be able to move too much with so much blood loss, but he didn't need to. And beyond that? That was a deranged madness about Pollutedsoul that lent him a determined steadiness. The boy lunged at her, trying to tackle her to the ground in an awkward, desperate attack. His bloody palms were scrambling, first assuring that he had her pinned under him, his knees digging into her sides viciously, then seeking out her throat with a feral grin. He pressed down savagely on her windpipe, leaning in close to her with a dark, psychotic stare fixed on her golden eyes. "Sorry, birdie," he breathed, "I'm not going to keep that promise. I'm going to keep you for-ever, instead. You can't leave me again, then, can you?"
Pollie did not seem to draw the same lines of distinction between himself and Bastille, not in the way that Echo appeared to. No, to him, they were all one and the same; the anguish and betrayal of one was his, devoured by his greedy, tormented soul. There was a fluid connection between them all, a shared experience; an attack against Bastille was an attack against them, and he felt something nasty towards this girl for trying to kill them. More than that, though, there was an aching pain over her abandonment -- it was all too familiar for Pollie, and he hated her.
He may be able to slaughter his love in cold blood, to revel in it, but he was still Bastille, somewhere -- and Bastille would sooner die than fucking harm Hazel. There was a tight, desperate squeeze of his fingers as Pollutedsoul felt the sudden surge, and then his grip went lax as his irises chill into soft blue once more, the psycho fucker jerked backwards.
"Haze," Bast murmured, still so close to her, his voice weak with the horrible dizziness as his hands slipped away from her throat, his weight falling to his elbows as they bracketed her head. There was a crushing regret there, for not being able to stop Pollie, for having to look down at her and see her trapped under him, but more importantly there was the cloying darkness pulling him down. He couldn't handle two swaps and this much blood loss all together; his lashes fluttered as his eyes closed, and he lost consciousness almost as quickly as he had regained control.
Unfortunately, that meant Hazel got all of his weight; fortunately, he was already so close to her, practically resting on her already, that it wasn't like there was much impact from the collapse.
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]