KOA
Later, when Koa thinks about this day, there will be two parts of it: before and after. The before is beautiful, a moment of youthful hope and potential too near and too painful for him to touch. It belongs in a snowglobe, to be preserved and admired and taken out on special occasions as a charming, nostalgic, remember when? Remember when we thought the future was ours? Remember when we laughed and talked of homes with laughing children and picket fences?
Remember when the sun was shining, and my hands were full of flowers, and my dreams were full of you?
There's a middle, of course. Nothing is ever black and white; there's always a little grey. After the before and before the after exists the in between: a stage of limbo where all eventualities are equally possible and equally unknown. It's into this limbo that Koa is now flung, his expression falling and his heart racing as Flora closes the difference between them, tears upon her face. "Wha--?" he starts, the word cut off as she crashes against him, her arms thrown round his neck.
"Flora?" He reaches for her, holds her close, fierce and protective and desperately afraid. This is as far from how he imagined the day going as is possible, and so he does what he does in a crisis: shores up, quiets down, forces in the calm. Makes himself be strong for Flora, as the world around them fades into the background and her tears soak into his shirt. Keeping his voice as steady as possible, the Dragoon murmurs against her hair. "Hey- hey. It's okay. I'm here. I've got you."
He cannot know how untrue those words are. After has yet to come.
Remember when the sun was shining, and my hands were full of flowers, and my dreams were full of you?
There's a middle, of course. Nothing is ever black and white; there's always a little grey. After the before and before the after exists the in between: a stage of limbo where all eventualities are equally possible and equally unknown. It's into this limbo that Koa is now flung, his expression falling and his heart racing as Flora closes the difference between them, tears upon her face. "Wha--?" he starts, the word cut off as she crashes against him, her arms thrown round his neck.
"Flora?" He reaches for her, holds her close, fierce and protective and desperately afraid. This is as far from how he imagined the day going as is possible, and so he does what he does in a crisis: shores up, quiets down, forces in the calm. Makes himself be strong for Flora, as the world around them fades into the background and her tears soak into his shirt. Keeping his voice as steady as possible, the Dragoon murmurs against her hair. "Hey- hey. It's okay. I'm here. I've got you."
He cannot know how untrue those words are. After has yet to come.
With each love I cut loose, I was never the same
Watching still living roots be consumed by the flame
Watching still living roots be consumed by the flame
