who we are and all that we're trying to be
Oh, Zuriel held disdain, and then some – maybe because the connections, the bonds, of soul upon soul, and she’d been the one to have to feel it day in and day out – the merciless, unrelenting wake of his grief, his broken vestiges, trying to knot the frayed ends back together again. Then she’d had to watch as he lost himself completely in the onslaught of afflictions, chasing after a man who should’ve known better, should’ve been brighter, shouldn’t have been cast so blatantly aside – so her eyes narrowed. Without his warning, his glances, she likely would’ve advanced, tired of it all, of the torment, of the anguish, of the constant despair, of how nothing ever seemed to be whole. Despite the Shield’s greeting, the unicorn gave no such response, the ears remaining pinned, nares flared wide; an indication of disastrous preamble and mistrust.
He was silent again though, the monolith, the tower, attempting not to crack and break, uncertain when and where they’d become so disjointed. In between the sorrows, the unknown, or elsewhere – the notions twisting and turning back onto him, along the bones of his ribs and the shattered remnants of his heart. The beast watched and waited, noted the tattoo glistening, some other symbolism he was entirely unaware of now; ignorant to changes, after they’d been split apart. He could offer naught in the stead – everything altered and painful and unwinding, the discomfort an overwhelming plunge, when they’d once been so collected and contorted in one another’s minds. Instead, all he could proffer and extend where the angles of his hushed presence, the distance harsh and cruel, turning over in his chest, as he unwound his own power into the wood, listened to the ricochet, the strikes, pouring strength and formidable nuances into the siege.
Amalia’s words echoed, going back (to where?), and the gratitude he didn’t expect. “Almost felt like normal.” A snort, the slightest hint of a smile brushing along the corners of his mouth, as he lifted the pieces he’d split, placing them into the wagon. Then it was gone, vanished along the traces – nestled back into the wounds, the inward scars. Many times and many circumstances and many instances where he reached and lunged for her, trying to take her out of the abyss. “I would not abandon you,” was another quiet murmur, before another toss of lumber.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
