[ A breath, the briefest consideration of whether or not she should just lie and soothe her, but that isn't really Ilde's way. Instead she is honest, and she lets her thoughts touch with Angel's, close and comfortable just like their skin. Familiar now that they have done this several times. ]
(I am too.)
[ They can hide from it here, for a little while, but the fear will always be waiting on the other side of the doorway. Ilde knows that all too well. Death, fear, and pain. A diseased pack of hound that stalks her every moment, sickness frothing at their mouths, waiting to catch her, catch those around her, and bite deep. ]
(You cannot let fear paralyze you, when you stand still... you assure your fate.)
[ She had called Angel a witch, but perhaps that was the power they needed to survive. That determination to reach even where it is ugly and dark. Prince would not approve. (Her King would not forgive.) She doesn't know if that matters. If his means have failed all who came before... what would he do for them now.
Determination wells inside of her. She won't relent. She won't let her brood be taken from her, nor Angel. She will die first. ]
[ In a tangle of thoughts and limbs she takes her cues from Ilde's breathing. There's sense to the words, they are the only words they can probably afford to have. ]
(Where I come from... there are others like me.)
[ starts, then stops, because it's hard, she makes a point not to talk about her home in detail. Paints in broad strokes of information that she keeps herself removed from. Says, Pandora is misery and sand, doesn't say she'd do anything to feel even that, says her father is a monster, but that the kills others.
If anything, what begun this is why she doesn't often talk about it, it's a pit of misery, but this was the first solid thought she'd had in years, watching like she did. ]
(But they're warriors, leaders, respected as much as feared. I wanted... so much to have their strength. They never stopped moving, no matter what happened. )
[ There they are, all three them, clear in her mind. The blue of their markings out from their ripped clothes, their too pale skin and their too bright eyes as they did such impossible things. She knows what they would do to Ilde's hounds ( skags is what she thinks of, with bile dripping from their jowls and the long drag of their tongue as their jaws snapped shut ), they'd melt them down to nothing, they'd bath them in every toxic element that they were given natural control over. ]
[ There is a dichotomy to the way that Ilde thinks about this. She believes in individuality, in strength of self. And yet she allowed herself to be poisoned by Dreus. And yet she believes in the idea of the Hive, of working together for the greater good. She sees none of it as contradictory, and that is the warped hypocrisy of her thinking. ]
(You cannot compare yourself. You can only be you, you must live with your choices.)
[ She believes it. She made her choices and she was not sorry. She was not sorry to have loved Dreus. She was not sorry to have killed that man on Avera. If the Hive takes something of her nature... she will not be sorry for that either. ]
[ For a second, there's only one answer, to explain everything, but she doesn't have the energy for it when she just clawed her way out of that memory. That's enough rolling in her own death for one day.
Rather she curls in, tilting her head and down into the curve of Ilde's shoulder, her shoulders hunching up as she sighed in the effort of her calm and recovery. The shift of muscles and skin, bones and tendons that are is sluggish. The draw into Ilde's warmth she can't seem to help but wants much more than she can admit. An exhausted breath she lets out of herself.
Then she forces herself back, putting her head flat on the pillow so she could look across and take Ilde in like this, their hair tangled up on the pillow. Still close, not that far apart -- but more, so she can see her face. Remember her just like this. The softness of her, staying her with her when she's nothing but wretched. ]
(Was it hard? Defining yourself? I only knew what... I didn't want to be.)
[ She's easily moulded in some ways, a newness, and a tenderness for living that no doubt time will ruin. Otherwise, she's stiffly unmoving. She knows what she will not do. It's a starting point, but she's keenly aware that's all it is. She has yet to do anything else herself. ]
[ The question, really, is if Ilde has defined herself. She doesn't feel as though she has. Her understanding of herself is... entirely too much like Angel's. Treated like something precious, something Holy, fed on false ideas and false promises. The only reason she fares better in that nebulous place is because she sees no other choice, but that does not make her any more solid. Any more knowledgeable on the matter. She thinks about Anika and Ahsoka. The apprentice had spoken high praise about how her master had taught her to believe in herself, to define herself. And to Anakin Skywalker the answer was so very simple: it was a matter of necessity, how could one live their own life without it, it would come naturally with time.
Ilde had a jealousy for what Anakin and Ahsoka had, and in this moment especially. She can't offer Angel any advice on this. They are both lost. Given no guidance except for the false religious dogma that they are special, something rather lost without the two madmen who propped up their wings for their own pleasure.
The chasm of that emptiness echoes inside of Ilde and she has to somehow keep it in silence. Angel has just begun to uncurl and she does not what to put all the weight and darkness back on her. Not now, maybe they would talk of this another time. Not now. She strokes a strand of dark hair away from Angel's face, a physical gesture of warmth to hide how cold she feels inside, ]
(Don't worry, it will come with time. )
[ She hopes. A platitude, not Ilde's way, but she cannot bear to make Angel cry any more today. ]
Edited (I wasn't...d one....) 2016-05-21 17:26 (UTC)
[ 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. ]
[ Her pulse quickens, an unfamiliar burn of heat across her collarbones. She does not understand this vulnerability, this tenderness. The only experience she has of such things is her Godking, and even at his most tender he scorched everyone around him, she has little burn marks on her skin from where he had been gentle.
The sensation, skin prickling, is almost like fear. Almost like that fevered sickness when her symbiote ability activates itself... but ever so subtly different. Giddy, half-hysterical. It makes her a little dizzy, uncertain whether to pull her hand away or to leave it in place where at least the physical contact was grounding in the swirl of terror and delight.
She blinks, forcing herself to shake it off enough to think although the prickling under her ribs remains. ]
Try to rest. I will be here when you wake up.
[ She manages to speak it, despite the subtle breathlessness. ]
[ She shifts this time, and it's not the cloying grip, the need to hold onto something because she wasn't sure she could remember how to move herself under her own will. This was to hold, this was to be close, because Ilde was there, offering things most people couldn't understand the weight of.
Rather she feeds off that giddiness, lets it give her the courage to move closer. No more experienced than Ilde is about what it means. A short sharp inhalation as she presses them together again. Just as messy, but with more intent on being close. A twist of limbs, a mess of hair, the clumsy brush of her nose against Ilde's cheek, the press of her fingers against her hip. She has no learning on how to be intimiate, just a galaxy full of observation that she tries to apply to mixed effect. A second to get comfortable like that, another to find her stillness where she might giggle or cry again and to let her eyes close with it.
Sleeping again is still strange, she hasn't gotten used to the fitfullness of dreaming again. The drift into it no longer comes natural. But for once -- it's less so. For once she's lulled into the quiet, and yes in dreaming it's thing she never remembers the details of, ancient buildings and forgotten star systems and things hidden by time as much as space - but she doesn't care then. Rather it's a second where she has her eyes lowered, taking in rise and fall of Ilde's own breathing and then afterwards its an absence she finds not awful. To sift down like moving through water, not drowning this time, just wading into the comfortable warmth and depth before she sinks away. That oddness to sleeping -- alive without being aware, a laxness and and an evenness to her breath when finally she's asleep, resting against Ilde -- no more and no less than that. ]
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circumspector) wrote2016-03-14 03:55 pm
no subject
( I am too. )
[ They can hide from it here, for a little while, but the fear will always be waiting on the other side of the doorway. Ilde knows that all too well. Death, fear, and pain. A diseased pack of hound that stalks her every moment, sickness frothing at their mouths, waiting to catch her, catch those around her, and bite deep. ]
( You cannot let fear paralyze you, when you stand still... you assure your fate. )
[ She had called Angel a witch, but perhaps that was the power they needed to survive. That determination to reach even where it is ugly and dark. Prince would not approve. (Her King would not forgive.) She doesn't know if that matters. If his means have failed all who came before... what would he do for them now.
Determination wells inside of her. She won't relent. She won't let her brood be taken from her, nor Angel. She will die first. ]
no subject
( Where I come from... there are others like me. )
[ starts, then stops, because it's hard, she makes a point not to talk about her home in detail. Paints in broad strokes of information that she keeps herself removed from. Says, Pandora is misery and sand, doesn't say she'd do anything to feel even that, says her father is a monster, but that the kills others.
If anything, what begun this is why she doesn't often talk about it, it's a pit of misery, but this was the first solid thought she'd had in years, watching like she did. ]
( But they're warriors, leaders, respected as much as feared. I wanted... so much to have their strength. They never stopped moving, no matter what happened. )
[ There they are, all three them, clear in her mind. The blue of their markings out from their ripped clothes, their too pale skin and their too bright eyes as they did such impossible things. She knows what they would do to Ilde's hounds ( skags is what she thinks of, with bile dripping from their jowls and the long drag of their tongue as their jaws snapped shut ), they'd melt them down to nothing, they'd bath them in every toxic element that they were given natural control over. ]
no subject
[ There is a dichotomy to the way that Ilde thinks about this. She believes in individuality, in strength of self. And yet she allowed herself to be poisoned by Dreus. And yet she believes in the idea of the Hive, of working together for the greater good. She sees none of it as contradictory, and that is the warped hypocrisy of her thinking. ]
( You cannot compare yourself. You can only be you, you must live with your choices. )
[ She believes it. She made her choices and she was not sorry. She was not sorry to have loved Dreus. She was not sorry to have killed that man on Avera. If the Hive takes something of her nature... she will not be sorry for that either. ]
no subject
[ For a second, there's only one answer, to explain everything, but she doesn't have the energy for it when she just clawed her way out of that memory. That's enough rolling in her own death for one day.
Rather she curls in, tilting her head and down into the curve of Ilde's shoulder, her shoulders hunching up as she sighed in the effort of her calm and recovery. The shift of muscles and skin, bones and tendons that are is sluggish. The draw into Ilde's warmth she can't seem to help but wants much more than she can admit. An exhausted breath she lets out of herself.
Then she forces herself back, putting her head flat on the pillow so she could look across and take Ilde in like this, their hair tangled up on the pillow. Still close, not that far apart -- but more, so she can see her face. Remember her just like this. The softness of her, staying her with her when she's nothing but wretched. ]
( Was it hard? Defining yourself? I only knew what... I didn't want to be. )
[ She's easily moulded in some ways, a newness, and a tenderness for living that no doubt time will ruin. Otherwise, she's stiffly unmoving. She knows what she will not do. It's a starting point, but she's keenly aware that's all it is. She has yet to do anything else herself. ]
no subject
Ilde had a jealousy for what Anakin and Ahsoka had, and in this moment especially. She can't offer Angel any advice on this. They are both lost. Given no guidance except for the false religious dogma that they are special, something rather lost without the two madmen who propped up their wings for their own pleasure.
The chasm of that emptiness echoes inside of Ilde and she has to somehow keep it in silence. Angel has just begun to uncurl and she does not what to put all the weight and darkness back on her. Not now, maybe they would talk of this another time. Not now. She strokes a strand of dark hair away from Angel's face, a physical gesture of warmth to hide how cold she feels inside, ]
( Don't worry, it will come with time. )
[ She hopes. A platitude, not Ilde's way, but she cannot bear to make Angel cry any more today. ]
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. ]
looking into your eyes so deeply
The sensation, skin prickling, is almost like fear. Almost like that fevered sickness when her symbiote ability activates itself... but ever so subtly different. Giddy, half-hysterical. It makes her a little dizzy, uncertain whether to pull her hand away or to leave it in place where at least the physical contact was grounding in the swirl of terror and delight.
She blinks, forcing herself to shake it off enough to think although the prickling under her ribs remains. ]
Try to rest. I will be here when you wake up.
[ She manages to speak it, despite the subtle breathlessness. ]
no subject
Rather she feeds off that giddiness, lets it give her the courage to move closer. No more experienced than Ilde is about what it means. A short sharp inhalation as she presses them together again. Just as messy, but with more intent on being close. A twist of limbs, a mess of hair, the clumsy brush of her nose against Ilde's cheek, the press of her fingers against her hip. She has no learning on how to be intimiate, just a galaxy full of observation that she tries to apply to mixed effect. A second to get comfortable like that, another to find her stillness where she might giggle or cry again and to let her eyes close with it.
Sleeping again is still strange, she hasn't gotten used to the fitfullness of dreaming again. The drift into it no longer comes natural. But for once -- it's less so. For once she's lulled into the quiet, and yes in dreaming it's thing she never remembers the details of, ancient buildings and forgotten star systems and things hidden by time as much as space - but she doesn't care then. Rather it's a second where she has her eyes lowered, taking in rise and fall of Ilde's own breathing and then afterwards its an absence she finds not awful. To sift down like moving through water, not drowning this time, just wading into the comfortable warmth and depth before she sinks away. That oddness to sleeping -- alive without being aware, a laxness and and an evenness to her breath when finally she's asleep, resting against Ilde -- no more and no less than that. ]