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★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
Hazel was busy ripping open his shirt to gain better access to the wounds. She could have used her sword, but honestly? She didn’t want to touch it. Bastille’s blood would forever stain the golden blade as well as her heart. As soon as she got the chance, she was going to kick it into the ocean - let the salty waters claim another part of her identity like it had throughout the years. Maybe it could wash away her bitterness over Dahlia, too.
Not only did she not want to go anywhere near her sword, but she also didn’t want to leave Bastille’s side. She had been the one to make him bleed, so she sure as hell was going to be the one to make sure that he lived.
Her mind was muddled, a little confused - three minutes ago hatred and anger and guilt at being the one to blame had built every fiber of her being. Then it had all just...seeped away. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the intensity of longing for what they had, or realizing that her anger was trivial and unnecessary and utterly stupid.
Her heart hadn’t stopped slamming against her ribs, the fear of losing him making her hands shake. She murmured nonsensical things to herself, to him - apologies and endearments and that he couldn’t die, because he needed to kick her ass for letting her one up him at something he was so good at. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
When Hazel glanced up next, she slipped her hand to his jaw, tilting his head up so she could search those glacier blue eyes. “C’mon, stay with me - stay with me, Bastille, c’mon - ” She murmured, frantic. Her pulse quickened when she realized the light was fading - dying. A strangled noise caught in her throat, and she pressed against the wounds on his torso with more pressure, ignoring the blood on her hands.
“I can’t believe you,” She muttered. “You live through all of that, and then I-I’m the one that - that -” She choked on her words, guilt ringing a bell so loudly in her ears she had to pause to blink away the tears.
Hazel shook her head, opening her mouth to say something else, when Bastille suddenly doubled over, swearing. She lurched backwards, startled from his deathly stillness to abrupt movement. She held her breath, hesitant, reaching out with a shaking hand, his name on the tip of her tongue - and -
Her blood froze in her veins.
His eyes, once such a familiar icy color, are now warm blue and green. And it’s - it’s chilling. Bastille’s eyes are cold, but they’re Hazel’s fire in the middle of a snowstorm. Seeing him with these is...unsettling. She’d met Echo, and was certain this was a different soul, but had no idea of his name.
Hazel opened her mouth, but didn’t get the chance to say anything before he lunged, moving like he wasn’t currently bleeding out. In fact, the yelp that slipped out of her mouth is one that tries to warn him not to move, that he can’t afford it. Before she could get the words out, Hazel was slammed on the ground, the breath knocked from her lungs and pressure squeezing her ribs. Hands wet with blood find her throat, pressing down with vicious intent. Immediately, her hands fly to his forearms, trying desperately to pry him off. But there’s no purchase; there’s two much blood.
Hazel gasped, pain and lack of oxygen darkening her vision surprisingly quick. Panicking, she tried to get her legs under her, but he was too heavy.
A part of her thinks I deserve this. A very large part. She deserved every bit of this, and if it wasn’t so against her primal instinct, then she wouldn’t have struggled. She would have taken it. Done penance.
And as soon as it starts, it’s over. There’s a second where his eyes flare with panic and his thumbs press further, and Hazel squirms - then he’s lurching backwards, and his arms come to bracket her head. Hazel wanted to curl in on herself, coughing and sucking in as much air as she could get, but he was still on top of her, pinning her.
She doesn’t want to look, afraid to find psychotic tropical blue and green staring back at her. But she does, and some sort of relief floods her when she finds drooping glacier blue. He gets the barest hint of her name out before he collapses.
Hazel’s breath is punched out of her once more, and she grunted with the weight of him. It was an uncomfortable parallel to hugging, except when they hugged, they were both conscious. A different sort of panic surged through her, and immediately, she rolled them over, cradling his head so it didn’t slam against the ground.
“Bastille?” She whispered, voice hoarse. “Bast? Deus, Bastille, please don’t die,” Hazel shakily reached for the cloth she had been using, and pressed it against his torso, tying it where the bleeding was worst. Terrified, she felt for his pulse, knowing that if she couldn’t find it, she might never move from the spot again.
Then a faint throb reached her fingers, and Hazel almost sobbed. “Gratias Deo, habitas.” She whispered, resting her forehead against his for a brief moment. “Mane mecum, Bastille.” The Latin slipped off her tongue as she placed a ginger kiss to his forehead, sweeping her thumb across his forehead to move the bangs from his eyes.
With a great thunder of hoofbeats, Arion arrived seconds later, and Hazel spent the next few hours bandaging up what she could, building a fire, and watching the sun set. It was dusk when she finally sat down again, checking Bastille’s pulse and his breath. She was no medical expert, but she knew the basics.
She watched while Arion frolicked after Octavia, the young horse elated to see such an old friend. Absently, she ran her fingers through Bastille’s hair, humming a broken tune that her radio used to play in the castle.
(this literally should not have taken as long as it did but i’m babysitting my brother and he’s a handful so this is a poorly written mess and i apologize)
Not only did she not want to go anywhere near her sword, but she also didn’t want to leave Bastille’s side. She had been the one to make him bleed, so she sure as hell was going to be the one to make sure that he lived.
Her mind was muddled, a little confused - three minutes ago hatred and anger and guilt at being the one to blame had built every fiber of her being. Then it had all just...seeped away. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the intensity of longing for what they had, or realizing that her anger was trivial and unnecessary and utterly stupid.
Her heart hadn’t stopped slamming against her ribs, the fear of losing him making her hands shake. She murmured nonsensical things to herself, to him - apologies and endearments and that he couldn’t die, because he needed to kick her ass for letting her one up him at something he was so good at. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
When Hazel glanced up next, she slipped her hand to his jaw, tilting his head up so she could search those glacier blue eyes. “C’mon, stay with me - stay with me, Bastille, c’mon - ” She murmured, frantic. Her pulse quickened when she realized the light was fading - dying. A strangled noise caught in her throat, and she pressed against the wounds on his torso with more pressure, ignoring the blood on her hands.
“I can’t believe you,” She muttered. “You live through all of that, and then I-I’m the one that - that -” She choked on her words, guilt ringing a bell so loudly in her ears she had to pause to blink away the tears.
Hazel shook her head, opening her mouth to say something else, when Bastille suddenly doubled over, swearing. She lurched backwards, startled from his deathly stillness to abrupt movement. She held her breath, hesitant, reaching out with a shaking hand, his name on the tip of her tongue - and -
Her blood froze in her veins.
His eyes, once such a familiar icy color, are now warm blue and green. And it’s - it’s chilling. Bastille’s eyes are cold, but they’re Hazel’s fire in the middle of a snowstorm. Seeing him with these is...unsettling. She’d met Echo, and was certain this was a different soul, but had no idea of his name.
Hazel opened her mouth, but didn’t get the chance to say anything before he lunged, moving like he wasn’t currently bleeding out. In fact, the yelp that slipped out of her mouth is one that tries to warn him not to move, that he can’t afford it. Before she could get the words out, Hazel was slammed on the ground, the breath knocked from her lungs and pressure squeezing her ribs. Hands wet with blood find her throat, pressing down with vicious intent. Immediately, her hands fly to his forearms, trying desperately to pry him off. But there’s no purchase; there’s two much blood.
Hazel gasped, pain and lack of oxygen darkening her vision surprisingly quick. Panicking, she tried to get her legs under her, but he was too heavy.
A part of her thinks I deserve this. A very large part. She deserved every bit of this, and if it wasn’t so against her primal instinct, then she wouldn’t have struggled. She would have taken it. Done penance.
And as soon as it starts, it’s over. There’s a second where his eyes flare with panic and his thumbs press further, and Hazel squirms - then he’s lurching backwards, and his arms come to bracket her head. Hazel wanted to curl in on herself, coughing and sucking in as much air as she could get, but he was still on top of her, pinning her.
She doesn’t want to look, afraid to find psychotic tropical blue and green staring back at her. But she does, and some sort of relief floods her when she finds drooping glacier blue. He gets the barest hint of her name out before he collapses.
Hazel’s breath is punched out of her once more, and she grunted with the weight of him. It was an uncomfortable parallel to hugging, except when they hugged, they were both conscious. A different sort of panic surged through her, and immediately, she rolled them over, cradling his head so it didn’t slam against the ground.
“Bastille?” She whispered, voice hoarse. “Bast? Deus, Bastille, please don’t die,” Hazel shakily reached for the cloth she had been using, and pressed it against his torso, tying it where the bleeding was worst. Terrified, she felt for his pulse, knowing that if she couldn’t find it, she might never move from the spot again.
Then a faint throb reached her fingers, and Hazel almost sobbed. “Gratias Deo, habitas.” She whispered, resting her forehead against his for a brief moment. “Mane mecum, Bastille.” The Latin slipped off her tongue as she placed a ginger kiss to his forehead, sweeping her thumb across his forehead to move the bangs from his eyes.
With a great thunder of hoofbeats, Arion arrived seconds later, and Hazel spent the next few hours bandaging up what she could, building a fire, and watching the sun set. It was dusk when she finally sat down again, checking Bastille’s pulse and his breath. She was no medical expert, but she knew the basics.
She watched while Arion frolicked after Octavia, the young horse elated to see such an old friend. Absently, she ran her fingers through Bastille’s hair, humming a broken tune that her radio used to play in the castle.
(this literally should not have taken as long as it did but i’m babysitting my brother and he’s a handful so this is a poorly written mess and i apologize)
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better