SuNJATA
the flood
“I have heard of it from another that lived there.” He offers to Hotaru, smiling weakly. Again, unknown to him that he had been there as well, once upon a time, right before the fall and everything else happened. But still, he finds himself remaining quiet again, letting her continue on with her own story, her own trials and tribulations she’s lived through. The comment of vengeance, of taking revenge, partially glazes his eyes as he nods. “I would.” It made them far more similar in that regard, but where Sunjata was from it was expected of him to judge, to execute if he saw fit.
That’s how it was.
His gaze lingers on the soft panes of her face after he gives her a bitter compliment, smile faltering slightly as she speaks of motherhood. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but my mother was great at it.” He frowns slightly before he shakes his head, how much makeup she had worn, how it had been likely her artists that came to cover his own bruises from his father, but ah. Another life, another time, and gods how he hoped that bastard was dead.
Still, he gives her a bit deeper understanding of his history, steel eyes flickering back to her face as she strokes the inside of his wrist, how they both were messes held together with tape and glue, trying so desperately to put it back together the right way so the seams would fit, when they wouldn’t. They never would. And despite the fact they knew this, they still tried anyway, because that’s what you did in the end, wasn’t it? Keep trying and hope for a different result?
As he finishes his story, pausing before any continuation of the wrath Lusea’s father had given, the wrath of the people of Korofi and his house, how he had left with Saartjie and went to Dorobo; he stills as she touches the end of the scar, briefly, before withdrawing – with far more gentleness than he had experienced when they’d shared a bed. Still, his steel eyes linger on her face as she comments that she’s no optimist, and he snorts. He can see the fire, see it within himself despite his self-destructive tendencies.
And she’s correct in her assumption that Lusea would say the same, the corners of his lips curling in that of an almost sad smile. “For having not met her, you sound a lot like her.” An offhand compliment of sorts – of strong women doing the best they can in the terrible situations they’ve been granted. And he admires it immensely, even as she lets her hand leave his to grab her glass and he does the same, sipping from it, nodding in agreement.
His attention returns to her, listening to her dive deeper into her own history, too. His fingers twitching lightly against the glass as she comments that Raeden had been beautiful, radiant, confident, when in reality that’s all he could see from Hotaru. He finds it hard to believe, but doesn’t comment on it, instead just understands. And he understands far deeper when she talks of the ledge they had stepped on, the contemplation and thoughts that left them, and he can’t help the clench to his jaw. He clenches it further as she wraps in on herself, reaching his own arm out to her to pull her close, into his warmth should she want it.
But then he falters at the reasons, gaze leaving her to look at the fire as she explains the deeper hidden bits, and he finds that perhaps his own reasoning was quite small in comparison, in the end. But he doesn’t confess it, not while she tells her story, and when she gets to Thranduil, and what the man had said coming across a scene such at that, he can’t help but to grit his teeth to that sort of response. He wonders if the man was similar to his father in the soullessness that accompanied words like that. And even her broken laugh breaks him internally, too, despite her attempt to cut it off.
He understands, to an extent.
And then she tells him of the second time she’d almost done it – alone, lost. But that she’s glad she hadn’t done it in the end, and he can understand that, too. That he had found Lusea the first time, and the second time it had been with her hand in his for an eternal martyrdom. None had come to pass. But there was another time, far more recent, and he chews on the inside of his cheek. “I almost did it here, too, when I had the blight.” He offers quietly, pausing as she reaches across the table and brushes her fingers against his knuckles, gaze drifting from the fire back to her face.
Then she grips his palm, and his dark brow raises slightly in silent response to her, steel eyes meeting her dual toned ones, the edge of a smile finding its way to his lips, and he sighs somewhat heavily as he nods to her. “I suppose you’re right.” He rumbles, eyes dropping from her face to the table between them. “She used to tell me that if I were to die, she’d be the one to end me. So here’s to immortality, in this world or the next.” It’s a feigned attempt at a joke as he lifts his glass to tap it lightly against her own, the faint sound of a toast hitting the world around them.
“I’m going to miss her yelling at me to not go soft again.” There’s a slight amusement at that before he manages to lift his gaze to hers, some sort of edge of fierceness hidden beneath them, the predatory attempts of the panther trying to escape. “Also, if more of your family arrives… Especially this Thranduil, let me know.” There’s a slight tilt to his head. A hidden underlining to his words that he wants to talk to this man, perhaps to shake him and ask him what the fuck is wrong with him.
But for now, they’re left by themselves. To their own devices. Picking up the pieces again and again and gluing them back together.
That’s how it was.
His gaze lingers on the soft panes of her face after he gives her a bitter compliment, smile faltering slightly as she speaks of motherhood. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but my mother was great at it.” He frowns slightly before he shakes his head, how much makeup she had worn, how it had been likely her artists that came to cover his own bruises from his father, but ah. Another life, another time, and gods how he hoped that bastard was dead.
Still, he gives her a bit deeper understanding of his history, steel eyes flickering back to her face as she strokes the inside of his wrist, how they both were messes held together with tape and glue, trying so desperately to put it back together the right way so the seams would fit, when they wouldn’t. They never would. And despite the fact they knew this, they still tried anyway, because that’s what you did in the end, wasn’t it? Keep trying and hope for a different result?
As he finishes his story, pausing before any continuation of the wrath Lusea’s father had given, the wrath of the people of Korofi and his house, how he had left with Saartjie and went to Dorobo; he stills as she touches the end of the scar, briefly, before withdrawing – with far more gentleness than he had experienced when they’d shared a bed. Still, his steel eyes linger on her face as she comments that she’s no optimist, and he snorts. He can see the fire, see it within himself despite his self-destructive tendencies.
And she’s correct in her assumption that Lusea would say the same, the corners of his lips curling in that of an almost sad smile. “For having not met her, you sound a lot like her.” An offhand compliment of sorts – of strong women doing the best they can in the terrible situations they’ve been granted. And he admires it immensely, even as she lets her hand leave his to grab her glass and he does the same, sipping from it, nodding in agreement.
His attention returns to her, listening to her dive deeper into her own history, too. His fingers twitching lightly against the glass as she comments that Raeden had been beautiful, radiant, confident, when in reality that’s all he could see from Hotaru. He finds it hard to believe, but doesn’t comment on it, instead just understands. And he understands far deeper when she talks of the ledge they had stepped on, the contemplation and thoughts that left them, and he can’t help the clench to his jaw. He clenches it further as she wraps in on herself, reaching his own arm out to her to pull her close, into his warmth should she want it.
But then he falters at the reasons, gaze leaving her to look at the fire as she explains the deeper hidden bits, and he finds that perhaps his own reasoning was quite small in comparison, in the end. But he doesn’t confess it, not while she tells her story, and when she gets to Thranduil, and what the man had said coming across a scene such at that, he can’t help but to grit his teeth to that sort of response. He wonders if the man was similar to his father in the soullessness that accompanied words like that. And even her broken laugh breaks him internally, too, despite her attempt to cut it off.
He understands, to an extent.
And then she tells him of the second time she’d almost done it – alone, lost. But that she’s glad she hadn’t done it in the end, and he can understand that, too. That he had found Lusea the first time, and the second time it had been with her hand in his for an eternal martyrdom. None had come to pass. But there was another time, far more recent, and he chews on the inside of his cheek. “I almost did it here, too, when I had the blight.” He offers quietly, pausing as she reaches across the table and brushes her fingers against his knuckles, gaze drifting from the fire back to her face.
Then she grips his palm, and his dark brow raises slightly in silent response to her, steel eyes meeting her dual toned ones, the edge of a smile finding its way to his lips, and he sighs somewhat heavily as he nods to her. “I suppose you’re right.” He rumbles, eyes dropping from her face to the table between them. “She used to tell me that if I were to die, she’d be the one to end me. So here’s to immortality, in this world or the next.” It’s a feigned attempt at a joke as he lifts his glass to tap it lightly against her own, the faint sound of a toast hitting the world around them.
“I’m going to miss her yelling at me to not go soft again.” There’s a slight amusement at that before he manages to lift his gaze to hers, some sort of edge of fierceness hidden beneath them, the predatory attempts of the panther trying to escape. “Also, if more of your family arrives… Especially this Thranduil, let me know.” There’s a slight tilt to his head. A hidden underlining to his words that he wants to talk to this man, perhaps to shake him and ask him what the fuck is wrong with him.
But for now, they’re left by themselves. To their own devices. Picking up the pieces again and again and gluing them back together.
love will save you, but it won't save me
BASE INSPIRED BY ODD <3
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
