I will be your lighthouse
He was at a loss. Caught between the urge to sweep her into his arms and never release her again, as if his strength was enough to shield her, or to drop to his knees and beg her then and there to never fight again, hell maybe never leave her house again. Either way, he felt a heightened desire to keep her, cage her like a fragile bird so he might enjoy her song longer even if it meant she wouldn't fly.
Selfish.
Yes. He was utterly selfish, especially when it came to her.
He did neither. Perhaps some portion of him was wise enough to realize she would never warble behind bars, would never be trapped behind them in the first place. She was better than him. The best of them, really. Wasn't that exactly what made this so horrific though? If even she could falter and tumble into a grave, what would stop it from happening again? She was alive, but now he knew she was at risk of dying. Her, strong, brave, fierce Melita who had laughed in the face of danger with him time and time again, had faced the world and it's horrors and smiled. She was not supposed to do anything other than rise.
He had no right. He knew that.
Knowing and agreeing are two very different things though. He also knew, KNEW, that crashing and burning his whole life over grief was a stupid thing to do, and that knowledge was a weight that pressed upon him each and every day he kept making that stupid choice in stubborn refusal to acknowledge it any further than that. What was another boulder with her name on it when he was already smothered by it. What was one more stupid decision made by the fool.
He stared at her, wild with the energy of so much he wished he could do, and so very little he could. He grappled with the air, visibly flexing on the spot as thoughts and emotions warred. Grab her—run, run, RUN. Take her and hide, keep her, his firefly in his palm, brightening his world.
He could not, and that killed him nearly as much.
"You didn't have to enter the tournament Mel!" he bit back at her, flustered and powerless and so damned scared. He knew she had an affinity for flipping off the world—what if she'd lifted her chin one too many times? What if she did it again? No, not if—when—Mel would definitely do it again.
FUCK.
He walked. A strip of ground back and forth in front of her to wear down, a path of ineptitude as she searched for some remedy to his idiocy. If he couldn't stop her, if she wouldn't stop, then what? Gods, he needed to be stronger, what had he been doing?! Stupid, stubborn, asshole wallowing in the cold like Mel wasn't fucking around with danger that whole time. Out of sight out of mind, but she'd always been in his heart. Fuck.
A pause, eyes narrowed. "Why did he do it?" Sah.
Why the fuck did Sah kill Melita?
Fear sharpened into anger, a blade he intended to turn outwards.
Selfish.
Yes. He was utterly selfish, especially when it came to her.
He did neither. Perhaps some portion of him was wise enough to realize she would never warble behind bars, would never be trapped behind them in the first place. She was better than him. The best of them, really. Wasn't that exactly what made this so horrific though? If even she could falter and tumble into a grave, what would stop it from happening again? She was alive, but now he knew she was at risk of dying. Her, strong, brave, fierce Melita who had laughed in the face of danger with him time and time again, had faced the world and it's horrors and smiled. She was not supposed to do anything other than rise.
He had no right. He knew that.
Knowing and agreeing are two very different things though. He also knew, KNEW, that crashing and burning his whole life over grief was a stupid thing to do, and that knowledge was a weight that pressed upon him each and every day he kept making that stupid choice in stubborn refusal to acknowledge it any further than that. What was another boulder with her name on it when he was already smothered by it. What was one more stupid decision made by the fool.
He stared at her, wild with the energy of so much he wished he could do, and so very little he could. He grappled with the air, visibly flexing on the spot as thoughts and emotions warred. Grab her—run, run, RUN. Take her and hide, keep her, his firefly in his palm, brightening his world.
He could not, and that killed him nearly as much.
"You didn't have to enter the tournament Mel!" he bit back at her, flustered and powerless and so damned scared. He knew she had an affinity for flipping off the world—what if she'd lifted her chin one too many times? What if she did it again? No, not if—when—Mel would definitely do it again.
FUCK.
He walked. A strip of ground back and forth in front of her to wear down, a path of ineptitude as she searched for some remedy to his idiocy. If he couldn't stop her, if she wouldn't stop, then what? Gods, he needed to be stronger, what had he been doing?! Stupid, stubborn, asshole wallowing in the cold like Mel wasn't fucking around with danger that whole time. Out of sight out of mind, but she'd always been in his heart. Fuck.
A pause, eyes narrowed. "Why did he do it?" Sah.
Why the fuck did Sah kill Melita?
Fear sharpened into anger, a blade he intended to turn outwards.
Iskra
