my held breath fills the room with blood
hurting in ways I can't describe
The way he says her name makes her shiver, and she wishes he hadn't let it roll off his tongue at all. Wishes she could cut it out from that downturned mouth to make sure he can never say her name again in such a way. Never make her knees feel weak when her given title hums through his throat. "If you were the type to have any kind of self-worth or self-preservation, you would seek out continued magical healing. Perhaps godly healing. Don't patronize me." Sunjata is a very lucky man, and though she does not think he's very intelligent she will at least call him lucky, because if he had told her of his own stupidity in Halo and the river she probably would have kicked him over the edge on sheer principle. It was, however, quite stupid of the man to want their little reunion party here, where she could so easily murder him and make it look like suicide.
And it is very tempting indeed when his pitiful voice rises in supplication, and she can't help how she takes a step away from him as if to put distance between herself and the hurt he seems to cause her just by existing. "But you did. Your intentions don't erase that." And when his brow rises, his teeth clacking in frustration, she merely twitches her own lip in a pale imitation of his fangs and her free hand dances with electricity. She does not fear him, and his patronizing tone will only edge him closer to the realization of her Sparta-kicking fantasies.
His rambling holds her attention temporarily at least, and she grits her teeth and lets the words wash over her. She wants to comment so badly, can scarcely hold her tongue as he pauses before continuing on in a rush, as if the words will escape him if he does not spit them out faster than his brain can register. And it would not hurt so bad if not for what he finishes with, an exact parallel to what she had said to Deimos as she had clung to his hand and cried in a way she hasn't since the death of her children. "Maybe it should have," she agrees quietly, voice trembling. "But it wasn't." Here it is iron, forgoing the betrayal of her vocal chords for a weight that she hopes chokes the bastard. "You went back to her, after I begged you to not even see her. You gave into her manipulation, after I pointed out that she was playing you better than any bard could play a lute," she accuses sharply, not letting him distract her with the intimacy of the phrase. No matter how she wishes this was a romantic novel with a happy ending, it isn't, and she cannot fall into his arms and beg him to leave his wife for her instead. She will not debase herself in such a manner, even if it feels like dragging a knife down her ribs with every scathing words.
"She never deserved your help in the first place! You played right into her hands, and she will continue her charade of tears and helplessness because you will fall for it every. Fucking. Time." No dragon alive can mimic the hiss of her tone, the tidal wave of lava that seems to lift beneath her vocals. Hotaru knows it's not his fault that he is prone to being manipulated, but it does nothing to ease her anger over his frank stupidity when she had warned him, shown him evidence of the way Phoebe was cruelly using him for her own ends.
She is still shaking when he bids her to open the box, and it takes a few moments of deep, trembling breaths before she can. Inside it is an intricate dagger, well-crafted and shining in the summer light, clearly new. And in the hilt a stone, a shade that she knows far too well as she has seen it in every lake and mirror since her birth. She wants to throw it over the edge of the Bridge if only to spite him and his attempt at buying her forgiveness, or whatever he seeks with this. Instead she runs a finger over the edge of the blade, watching blood well across the tip before she flicks it away and closes the top of the box without caring if the blood stains it. "Thank you, it's beautiful." And though it's sincere, there's still a stiffness to her voice, still far too tense from their previous topic of conversation to express her gratitude. Unsure if he deserves it in the first place.
And it is very tempting indeed when his pitiful voice rises in supplication, and she can't help how she takes a step away from him as if to put distance between herself and the hurt he seems to cause her just by existing. "But you did. Your intentions don't erase that." And when his brow rises, his teeth clacking in frustration, she merely twitches her own lip in a pale imitation of his fangs and her free hand dances with electricity. She does not fear him, and his patronizing tone will only edge him closer to the realization of her Sparta-kicking fantasies.
His rambling holds her attention temporarily at least, and she grits her teeth and lets the words wash over her. She wants to comment so badly, can scarcely hold her tongue as he pauses before continuing on in a rush, as if the words will escape him if he does not spit them out faster than his brain can register. And it would not hurt so bad if not for what he finishes with, an exact parallel to what she had said to Deimos as she had clung to his hand and cried in a way she hasn't since the death of her children. "Maybe it should have," she agrees quietly, voice trembling. "But it wasn't." Here it is iron, forgoing the betrayal of her vocal chords for a weight that she hopes chokes the bastard. "You went back to her, after I begged you to not even see her. You gave into her manipulation, after I pointed out that she was playing you better than any bard could play a lute," she accuses sharply, not letting him distract her with the intimacy of the phrase. No matter how she wishes this was a romantic novel with a happy ending, it isn't, and she cannot fall into his arms and beg him to leave his wife for her instead. She will not debase herself in such a manner, even if it feels like dragging a knife down her ribs with every scathing words.
"She never deserved your help in the first place! You played right into her hands, and she will continue her charade of tears and helplessness because you will fall for it every. Fucking. Time." No dragon alive can mimic the hiss of her tone, the tidal wave of lava that seems to lift beneath her vocals. Hotaru knows it's not his fault that he is prone to being manipulated, but it does nothing to ease her anger over his frank stupidity when she had warned him, shown him evidence of the way Phoebe was cruelly using him for her own ends.
She is still shaking when he bids her to open the box, and it takes a few moments of deep, trembling breaths before she can. Inside it is an intricate dagger, well-crafted and shining in the summer light, clearly new. And in the hilt a stone, a shade that she knows far too well as she has seen it in every lake and mirror since her birth. She wants to throw it over the edge of the Bridge if only to spite him and his attempt at buying her forgiveness, or whatever he seeks with this. Instead she runs a finger over the edge of the blade, watching blood well across the tip before she flicks it away and closes the top of the box without caring if the blood stains it. "Thank you, it's beautiful." And though it's sincere, there's still a stiffness to her voice, still far too tense from their previous topic of conversation to express her gratitude. Unsure if he deserves it in the first place.
my heart bends and breaks
so many, many times
HOTARU
