12-29-2017, 02:30 PM
She stood, green eyes blazing fearlessly and he felt her words pass through him. For a moment, one single moment, he paused. Not her words. He didn't hear them. No, that wasn't it. He hadn't understood. They were muffled and indistinct, as though he were under water. And as he thought it, she seemed to shimmer.
His blue eyes latched on to her green, a lifeline. Tenderness. Concern. Love. Fearlessness. They shone in her face. He pulled forward, toward that face, toward the surface, anchoring himself in what he did know- and suddenly, with one final lurch, he felt a pop! the bursting of a bubble.
Her words played through his mind. She hadn't meantt it. He knew that. She'd only meant good. But he felt stabbed through all the same. She was his and he was hers, that was true. But he'd had a life. More than that. Far more. And Armande felt a thread of fear lance through him. How could he ever tell her what he'd done, what he HAD to do? Bitterness ate at him. What he thought he had to do. The possibility of her turning away in disgust would seal his fate
And then her words burned him. He felt no spark at the visions. No, he was a liar. He did! And if had felt rage before it was a candle as to an inferno.
He gently (always so gently. He never wants to hurt her) reaches out, to feel the stone in her hand. The bloodstone, she calls it. Her hand is clasped around it, tightly, protectively. For it or for herself? She is never in danger.
Gently, tenderly he pries open her hand, carefully. And then his hand is in her tiny hand, his fingers holding the stone. He pulls it to him, holds it up, sees the play of light through it, sees her form, warped and shadowy through its surface.
And he knows what this is. He knows a talisman for focusing. And her visions are ringing in his ear and his anger builds.
It is not a stone. It is a hook, dangling there, twitching and shaking, calling to him.
His voice is tired. Rage is tiring. "This is just bait. A way to string me along. A hook through my nose. To play me for a fool. I have pursued visions my whole life. I want to be free."
He grips the stone tightly, so tight his tendons and the muscles of his hand stand out from tension. His arm draws back, anterior shoulder muscle taut, a spring pulled tight, arms iron bars, hand shaking. The stone is at his ear singing to him a sweet song and has to destroy it.
Destroy the bait. Cut the hook. Watch the shattered stone spatter against the wall, embedding shards in the surface.
Set himself free.
Why can't he do it? Why wont't he let it fly?
Edited by Regus, Dec 29 2017, 05:20 PM.
His blue eyes latched on to her green, a lifeline. Tenderness. Concern. Love. Fearlessness. They shone in her face. He pulled forward, toward that face, toward the surface, anchoring himself in what he did know- and suddenly, with one final lurch, he felt a pop! the bursting of a bubble.
Her words played through his mind. She hadn't meantt it. He knew that. She'd only meant good. But he felt stabbed through all the same. She was his and he was hers, that was true. But he'd had a life. More than that. Far more. And Armande felt a thread of fear lance through him. How could he ever tell her what he'd done, what he HAD to do? Bitterness ate at him. What he thought he had to do. The possibility of her turning away in disgust would seal his fate
And then her words burned him. He felt no spark at the visions. No, he was a liar. He did! And if had felt rage before it was a candle as to an inferno.
He gently (always so gently. He never wants to hurt her) reaches out, to feel the stone in her hand. The bloodstone, she calls it. Her hand is clasped around it, tightly, protectively. For it or for herself? She is never in danger.
Gently, tenderly he pries open her hand, carefully. And then his hand is in her tiny hand, his fingers holding the stone. He pulls it to him, holds it up, sees the play of light through it, sees her form, warped and shadowy through its surface.
And he knows what this is. He knows a talisman for focusing. And her visions are ringing in his ear and his anger builds.
It is not a stone. It is a hook, dangling there, twitching and shaking, calling to him.
His voice is tired. Rage is tiring. "This is just bait. A way to string me along. A hook through my nose. To play me for a fool. I have pursued visions my whole life. I want to be free."
He grips the stone tightly, so tight his tendons and the muscles of his hand stand out from tension. His arm draws back, anterior shoulder muscle taut, a spring pulled tight, arms iron bars, hand shaking. The stone is at his ear singing to him a sweet song and has to destroy it.
Destroy the bait. Cut the hook. Watch the shattered stone spatter against the wall, embedding shards in the surface.
Set himself free.
Why can't he do it? Why wont't he let it fly?
Edited by Regus, Dec 29 2017, 05:20 PM.