05-07-2018, 01:34 AM
(This post was last modified: 05-07-2018, 01:41 AM by BASTILLEPAW.)
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There was nothing in the darkness. Sometimes Bastille dreamed, and he dreamed vividly; for the most part, however, there was nothing but the vast expanse of black -- a free trial of death, test it out and see if it was your flavor or not. Sure, most of the time when he passed out suddenly, he found himself in the clearing with that three point star; hell, he usually knew it was coming and could steel himself for the shitty commentary that was about to be headed his way. This time was a little different, he supposed -- blood loss and near death didn't quite equate to soul troubles -- but Bastille would later have the greater theory that Pollutedsoul was hiding from his wrath. The crazy fucker was completely unapologetic for his actions, but even he wasn't crazy enough to think he was going to escape Bast's steady burning fury. It wasn't like he could really do anything to him, but he could make damned certain that Pollie never saw the light of day ever again. And, to some extent, he cut him off from even experiencing the world through Bast; it was cruel, but Bast darkly reflected that he did not care. Pollutedsoul was a fucking plague that he would purge if he could.
As it was, there was no way for him to measure the stretch of time. Grimm needed time to preserve his host, however, and therefore it would not be for hours that he started to stir. His unconsciousness was deep and thorough, and it was only with a very gradual sense of awareness that he started to come to once his body had recovered enough. The humming invaded first, coiling around him in the darkness, and there was a groggy happiness there -- he couldn't say why, unable to quiet place the sound, but it filled him with such an immediate and intense warmth that he realized that he must be waking up. And then there was the gentle drag of fingers in his hair, and her aura engulfed him like a flame consuming his soul.
Things were hazy in those first few moments, where he felt nothing but the bliss of her warmth, her proximity; he could swear he was dreaming now, because his princess was gone, but after a beat his head was clearing. In the wake of his memories catching up to him -- he could see nothing but her panicked stare, her thrashing as he strangled her -- Bast felt chilled, her warmth abandoning him, and then he was really awake.
He was pushing himself upright in a jolt almost before he had finished processing everything. His body did not appreciate the movement, and he winced at the stab of pain, but he didn't care -- his gaze was on her and he was surging forward, his hands catching her face as he ducked his head and kissed her with a desperation that was palpable. Because he was fucking horrified at the prospect of losing her, and he could practically taste the regret in his mouth as he berated himself over and over for letting Pollutedsoul take advantage of the situation, for not stopping him in time, and he had missed her, missed her so fucking badly that some part of him had died of mourning only to gasp for life once more at the sight of her golden eyes--
He was drowning in her, and he didn't want to come up for air, but he knew he had too much to say that he could not say with actions alone. When he drew back from her, it was with the barest of movements, only parting enough to speak as he stared into fathomless gold. "Haze," he breathed softly, reverently, before his words were coming in a wave, "I'm so fucking sorry, Hazel, Jesus-- I should have been able to stop him, and he's an asshole, and-- I'm sorry you had to see that. I never wanted you to see him, Haze, see that part of me, but you know that I wouldn't-- I would never hurt you. I don't care how fucking crazy he is, I wouldn't let him hurt you if it killed me."
His stare was searching, as if he was desperate for the confirmation that she believed him, that she didn't hate him for who he was deep down. He couldn't handle to be this close to her again, to feel her warmth, only to have her push him away because of Pollutedsoul of all fucking people. His thumb moved absently against her cheek, and he tilted closer to her once more, breathing the breaths she released as if she alone could give him the oxygen he needed.
His injuries were such a distant thought, partially because Grimm had managed to string him the fuck together and possibly because with Hazel this close and this radiant, he didn't have a thought to spare for the faint throbbing of pain. Hell, he didn't even care any more about her words, or the force of her anger; his Hazel had made a comeback in the end, there, and he could remember the look in her eyes so vividly that it stole his breath just thinking about the intensity of it. And that was to say nothing about her close her eyes were now, leaving him immobile for a moment as he just stared.
"I'm sorry," he finally breathed again after a moment, stare half-lidded as he murmured, "I'm sorry for everything, Haze. I should have tried harder to pull you back, but you were pushing me away and I was too stupid to just slow you down and make you talk to me. I couldn't handle your anger. I just didn't have it in me, and I let you leave, and I'm sorry. I never should have let you go, and I'm sorry I couldn't hold onto Eden for you, either."
Bastille lived with a lot of regrets, and he always had -- but he had never so easily reached an apology in his life. Usually there was just too much anger, or there was no one left to apologize to; hell, he never would have gotten this chance if not for the strange decrees of fate, but once he had her here, her golden gaze on him from so close, he found that it was the easiest thing in the world. There wasn't a single thing that Bast wouldn't apologize for if it meant he got to keep her for a little longer, got to beg her not to hate him, not to leave him again.
He tilted forward and kissed her again, because he was fucking starving, but then he was speaking again, his voice low, "I'm sorry that I love you--" his thumb swept over her cheek once more, brushing curls out of the way as he stared at her, gaze dark and intent, "--because I know that I could never deserve the radiance of your soul, but I do. I thought for the longest time that I could save you from myself, that you could never know, but--" He paused briefly, and then a faint half-smile flickered upwards, voice tinged with hints of amusement as he shifted his words slightly and said instead, "And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire."
The words were fluid, gentle, but possessed the sort of reverence that said he was quoting something. (Ironic, he thought, that Sydney Carton's words were the ones that came to mind.) They might not be his own, but he couldn't think of a more fitting summary -- when he had met Hazel, he'd been so cold and empty, closed off to the world, feeling nothing and being nothing; he was convinced that it was only through her that he had learned what it meant to care, to feel. She had breathed life and hope into him, and the golden warmth of her soul had ignited something in him that had taken him years to fully understand.
"I love you," he murmured against her mouth, possibly the most earnest words he'd ever said in his life as he pushed forward to catch her lips again, [b]"Fuck, Hazel, I love you so much."
There was nothing in the darkness. Sometimes Bastille dreamed, and he dreamed vividly; for the most part, however, there was nothing but the vast expanse of black -- a free trial of death, test it out and see if it was your flavor or not. Sure, most of the time when he passed out suddenly, he found himself in the clearing with that three point star; hell, he usually knew it was coming and could steel himself for the shitty commentary that was about to be headed his way. This time was a little different, he supposed -- blood loss and near death didn't quite equate to soul troubles -- but Bastille would later have the greater theory that Pollutedsoul was hiding from his wrath. The crazy fucker was completely unapologetic for his actions, but even he wasn't crazy enough to think he was going to escape Bast's steady burning fury. It wasn't like he could really do anything to him, but he could make damned certain that Pollie never saw the light of day ever again. And, to some extent, he cut him off from even experiencing the world through Bast; it was cruel, but Bast darkly reflected that he did not care. Pollutedsoul was a fucking plague that he would purge if he could.
As it was, there was no way for him to measure the stretch of time. Grimm needed time to preserve his host, however, and therefore it would not be for hours that he started to stir. His unconsciousness was deep and thorough, and it was only with a very gradual sense of awareness that he started to come to once his body had recovered enough. The humming invaded first, coiling around him in the darkness, and there was a groggy happiness there -- he couldn't say why, unable to quiet place the sound, but it filled him with such an immediate and intense warmth that he realized that he must be waking up. And then there was the gentle drag of fingers in his hair, and her aura engulfed him like a flame consuming his soul.
Things were hazy in those first few moments, where he felt nothing but the bliss of her warmth, her proximity; he could swear he was dreaming now, because his princess was gone, but after a beat his head was clearing. In the wake of his memories catching up to him -- he could see nothing but her panicked stare, her thrashing as he strangled her -- Bast felt chilled, her warmth abandoning him, and then he was really awake.
He was pushing himself upright in a jolt almost before he had finished processing everything. His body did not appreciate the movement, and he winced at the stab of pain, but he didn't care -- his gaze was on her and he was surging forward, his hands catching her face as he ducked his head and kissed her with a desperation that was palpable. Because he was fucking horrified at the prospect of losing her, and he could practically taste the regret in his mouth as he berated himself over and over for letting Pollutedsoul take advantage of the situation, for not stopping him in time, and he had missed her, missed her so fucking badly that some part of him had died of mourning only to gasp for life once more at the sight of her golden eyes--
He was drowning in her, and he didn't want to come up for air, but he knew he had too much to say that he could not say with actions alone. When he drew back from her, it was with the barest of movements, only parting enough to speak as he stared into fathomless gold. "Haze," he breathed softly, reverently, before his words were coming in a wave, "I'm so fucking sorry, Hazel, Jesus-- I should have been able to stop him, and he's an asshole, and-- I'm sorry you had to see that. I never wanted you to see him, Haze, see that part of me, but you know that I wouldn't-- I would never hurt you. I don't care how fucking crazy he is, I wouldn't let him hurt you if it killed me."
His stare was searching, as if he was desperate for the confirmation that she believed him, that she didn't hate him for who he was deep down. He couldn't handle to be this close to her again, to feel her warmth, only to have her push him away because of Pollutedsoul of all fucking people. His thumb moved absently against her cheek, and he tilted closer to her once more, breathing the breaths she released as if she alone could give him the oxygen he needed.
His injuries were such a distant thought, partially because Grimm had managed to string him the fuck together and possibly because with Hazel this close and this radiant, he didn't have a thought to spare for the faint throbbing of pain. Hell, he didn't even care any more about her words, or the force of her anger; his Hazel had made a comeback in the end, there, and he could remember the look in her eyes so vividly that it stole his breath just thinking about the intensity of it. And that was to say nothing about her close her eyes were now, leaving him immobile for a moment as he just stared.
"I'm sorry," he finally breathed again after a moment, stare half-lidded as he murmured, "I'm sorry for everything, Haze. I should have tried harder to pull you back, but you were pushing me away and I was too stupid to just slow you down and make you talk to me. I couldn't handle your anger. I just didn't have it in me, and I let you leave, and I'm sorry. I never should have let you go, and I'm sorry I couldn't hold onto Eden for you, either."
Bastille lived with a lot of regrets, and he always had -- but he had never so easily reached an apology in his life. Usually there was just too much anger, or there was no one left to apologize to; hell, he never would have gotten this chance if not for the strange decrees of fate, but once he had her here, her golden gaze on him from so close, he found that it was the easiest thing in the world. There wasn't a single thing that Bast wouldn't apologize for if it meant he got to keep her for a little longer, got to beg her not to hate him, not to leave him again.
He tilted forward and kissed her again, because he was fucking starving, but then he was speaking again, his voice low, "I'm sorry that I love you--" his thumb swept over her cheek once more, brushing curls out of the way as he stared at her, gaze dark and intent, "--because I know that I could never deserve the radiance of your soul, but I do. I thought for the longest time that I could save you from myself, that you could never know, but--" He paused briefly, and then a faint half-smile flickered upwards, voice tinged with hints of amusement as he shifted his words slightly and said instead, "And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire."
The words were fluid, gentle, but possessed the sort of reverence that said he was quoting something. (Ironic, he thought, that Sydney Carton's words were the ones that came to mind.) They might not be his own, but he couldn't think of a more fitting summary -- when he had met Hazel, he'd been so cold and empty, closed off to the world, feeling nothing and being nothing; he was convinced that it was only through her that he had learned what it meant to care, to feel. She had breathed life and hope into him, and the golden warmth of her soul had ignited something in him that had taken him years to fully understand.
"I love you," he murmured against her mouth, possibly the most earnest words he'd ever said in his life as he pushed forward to catch her lips again, [b]"Fuck, Hazel, I love you so much."
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]