[ It's perhaps not great words of wisdom, but the truth of that is that Angel would have a hard time accepting half of what she was told. Her choice was self-destruction, her choice was dark oblivion, why this is at any length difficult to understand how others spoke when they didn't know what it was to only have nightmares being interchangeable with comfort.
Ilde does, for all she might not say it, and it might not come up so directly, but she suspects it's why she can lay here in her own nothingness with Ilde so comfortably. With everyone else, there's a need to make it up, but with her -- there is just them. Other people's delusion and the imprint it's left on them in return -- and to that end, when Ilde brushes her fingers against her cheek, Angel's eyes close and her free hand reaches up, to still it there against her face. Turning into it ever so slightly, the flutter of eyelashes and the brush from the corner of her mouth against the edge of her palm, her fingers laced over and across with no pressure other than the softness of what she had asked to start with, for her to stay.
If Ilde is a gardener, then Angel suspects this must be how it feel to be one of her flowers. ]
(... Alright.)
[ Trust, she realises, has many forms, and even if it is not -- some speech Roland might give, it's what she needs, the confirmation that they have time now. She can be more now, she can with it, find things to fill up this space. With seconds, moments, like this. Her appreciation, gratefulness, is open. ]
no one look at me
Ilde does, for all she might not say it, and it might not come up so directly, but she suspects it's why she can lay here in her own nothingness with Ilde so comfortably. With everyone else, there's a need to make it up, but with her -- there is just them. Other people's delusion and the imprint it's left on them in return -- and to that end, when Ilde brushes her fingers against her cheek, Angel's eyes close and her free hand reaches up, to still it there against her face. Turning into it ever so slightly, the flutter of eyelashes and the brush from the corner of her mouth against the edge of her palm, her fingers laced over and across with no pressure other than the softness of what she had asked to start with, for her to stay.
If Ilde is a gardener, then Angel suspects this must be how it feel to be one of her flowers. ]
( ... Alright. )
[ Trust, she realises, has many forms, and even if it is not -- some speech Roland might give, it's what she needs, the confirmation that they have time now. She can be more now, she can with it, find things to fill up this space. With seconds, moments, like this. Her appreciation, gratefulness, is open. ]