i was raised as a scorpion
being pulled by the moon in a high tide
being pulled by the moon in a high tide
He knows she cares. It’s why he’s telling her this in the first place, because if he didn’t think that she did, then this conversation would have been strictly business – but his wrist seems to burn from where she’d touched it the night before, and even as she says my own feelings aside, he knows that she’s right. Because he can’t heal. He doesn’t know how. Frey has tried to show him, tried to tell him that things would get easier and each day he wakes up and tries so desperately to be something fulfilled and whole again, only to fall into bed that very same night, drained of every hopeless optimism he’d tried to shove into his missing pieces.
He's always been a pessimist, though, none of that is new. “I don’t know.” He admits, rather than trying to fill that answer with something thought out and smart. It’s empty, just as he tells her exactly how empty he’s become. A puppet, yet again, but this time for his own aimless wanderings, a soul cleaved more than once, and all that’s left is the little pinprick of hope that – as he realizes rather abruptly – has been squandered by the very question Isla had asked of him last night.
“No, but—” She isn’t done, yet, and he draws silent as his lips seal, as his jaw tightens and he can’t help but to watch her despite how many mixed signals he receives, with the way her words hurt despite it being exactly the reason he’d avoided her for so long, while she simultaneously kneels in front of him and that warm, fiery touch finds his face, surprisingly cold amongst the heat of the day.
He knows she’d do most anything for him, and it terrifies him. Because after everything, there’s still that kindle of love that blindsides, and he can’t help but to tilt his head into her hand just as he’d done the night before, shutting his eyes to keep from having to watch the way he’s ruined the day so fucking early in the morning.
“I have always seen myself as a curse. It’s why I distance myself and pull away and stay hidden in the Refuge for over a year since the walls lifted.” A tiny admission – that when he’d teased her the night before about being a hermit, he’d done nothing but the same. Only, instead of having the Halovians around to help, he’d had no one. Nothing but his shifts prowling under his skin to remind him when he needed to eat.
“I don’t want to put this on you. I’m not asking for anything. I only wanted to tell you that despite everything, I still care, and I still love you.” He nearly chokes on the word love but he pushes on. He’s not asking for her hand in anything. He’s simply trying to let her know that maybe in the dark moments when Halo’s sun hasn’t risen at the dawn, that she wouldn’t lie awake at night and wonder if he felt anything for her too.
Heaving a quiet sigh, his gaze opens to find her face, no mask to be found but the very same young Attuned that had met her not too long after she’d arrived before everything started to fall apart again. “I don’t know if I can ever heal from it. I’m… Surprised I’ve made it this far, to be honest. But I am trying to be better, even if the idea of healing is impossible. I’m trying to repair everything I’ve broken.” Everything except for himself, it seems. A martyr to his feelings, trying to save everything else at a cost to him.
His jaw works only a fraction more before he sniffs, as if trying to draw himself out of that hopeless spiral again, but it’s evidenced by the blue feathers that start to poke up and sprout against his neck, filling in the tattoos that drift below his shirt collar. “Nothing has to come of it. I don’t expect or want anything from it. I just want to know that even though it feels like everything is still lost, that I haven’t lost you too.” And maybe he has. And if he has, there wouldn’t be any hard feelings. He understands.
But where there’s the hope she has of the fire of him trying to prove to her that he wants to be more? He has no words for it. He’s always going to be made of broken shards of glass and murky, oil-slick ghosts. And too much has happened for him to ever think that he might be whole again, with or without Hotaru.
He’d once owned a boxing ring not too far from this Inn. The very same one she had burned to the ground. And yet, the time to fight for anything has long since passed with the failure of the war, the failure on him to protect the ones he cared about the most. He'd failed time and time again, in Korofi and here.
And the only way he can see himself trying to get better is simply getting back up, staying in his lane, head down, mouth shut, and paying for all the grievances he's caused in his fruitless attempts to change the past. “I'm sorry if that isn't what you wanted to hear.”
He's always been a pessimist, though, none of that is new. “I don’t know.” He admits, rather than trying to fill that answer with something thought out and smart. It’s empty, just as he tells her exactly how empty he’s become. A puppet, yet again, but this time for his own aimless wanderings, a soul cleaved more than once, and all that’s left is the little pinprick of hope that – as he realizes rather abruptly – has been squandered by the very question Isla had asked of him last night.
“No, but—” She isn’t done, yet, and he draws silent as his lips seal, as his jaw tightens and he can’t help but to watch her despite how many mixed signals he receives, with the way her words hurt despite it being exactly the reason he’d avoided her for so long, while she simultaneously kneels in front of him and that warm, fiery touch finds his face, surprisingly cold amongst the heat of the day.
He knows she’d do most anything for him, and it terrifies him. Because after everything, there’s still that kindle of love that blindsides, and he can’t help but to tilt his head into her hand just as he’d done the night before, shutting his eyes to keep from having to watch the way he’s ruined the day so fucking early in the morning.
“I have always seen myself as a curse. It’s why I distance myself and pull away and stay hidden in the Refuge for over a year since the walls lifted.” A tiny admission – that when he’d teased her the night before about being a hermit, he’d done nothing but the same. Only, instead of having the Halovians around to help, he’d had no one. Nothing but his shifts prowling under his skin to remind him when he needed to eat.
“I don’t want to put this on you. I’m not asking for anything. I only wanted to tell you that despite everything, I still care, and I still love you.” He nearly chokes on the word love but he pushes on. He’s not asking for her hand in anything. He’s simply trying to let her know that maybe in the dark moments when Halo’s sun hasn’t risen at the dawn, that she wouldn’t lie awake at night and wonder if he felt anything for her too.
Heaving a quiet sigh, his gaze opens to find her face, no mask to be found but the very same young Attuned that had met her not too long after she’d arrived before everything started to fall apart again. “I don’t know if I can ever heal from it. I’m… Surprised I’ve made it this far, to be honest. But I am trying to be better, even if the idea of healing is impossible. I’m trying to repair everything I’ve broken.” Everything except for himself, it seems. A martyr to his feelings, trying to save everything else at a cost to him.
His jaw works only a fraction more before he sniffs, as if trying to draw himself out of that hopeless spiral again, but it’s evidenced by the blue feathers that start to poke up and sprout against his neck, filling in the tattoos that drift below his shirt collar. “Nothing has to come of it. I don’t expect or want anything from it. I just want to know that even though it feels like everything is still lost, that I haven’t lost you too.” And maybe he has. And if he has, there wouldn’t be any hard feelings. He understands.
But where there’s the hope she has of the fire of him trying to prove to her that he wants to be more? He has no words for it. He’s always going to be made of broken shards of glass and murky, oil-slick ghosts. And too much has happened for him to ever think that he might be whole again, with or without Hotaru.
He’d once owned a boxing ring not too far from this Inn. The very same one she had burned to the ground. And yet, the time to fight for anything has long since passed with the failure of the war, the failure on him to protect the ones he cared about the most. He'd failed time and time again, in Korofi and here.
And the only way he can see himself trying to get better is simply getting back up, staying in his lane, head down, mouth shut, and paying for all the grievances he's caused in his fruitless attempts to change the past. “I'm sorry if that isn't what you wanted to hear.”
the flood
that's why i'm broken, yeah,
am i a villain or a saint?
am i a villain or a saint?
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.
