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‘I’m sorry, Enna – You didn’t deserve this’ But no one ever does. You want to say it, point out the lack of fairness of the world when it is so glaringly obvious, but as you look at him that little streak of defiance is lost, your face softening for all the (what you assume to be) anger written all across his. You press your lips to his cheek, trying to comfort him when you are at a loss for words, a loss of what to do. For a long time, until he had laid his hands, selfish and rough and wrong, on you, you had thought that nothing else bad could happen to you. You had lost your brother to the clutches of death before it was his time (he was so young, still – a wild-eyed boy with dreams no less wild, a dauntless heart and a love for adventure; how you still carry the weight of that on your fragile, aching heart). You had lost Ama and Da when they were scattered to the same wind that took your brother’s life, and with it, your entire world. You had thought that the dream that you had shared with him was a sign that he was something special, wouldn’t leave you, wouldn’t hurt you, would love you, that you had finally earned the privilege of having something to keep. Again he presses into you, and you lean into him, the bridge of your nose barely finding the latch of his throat as your head moves underneath his. You can feel the tension within him, feel it grow as your uneasiness melts away, your desire for him to be alright overwhelming against your own pain.
But instead of remaining silent he speaks, calling the man a fool, a coward, truths that you do not bother denying. It is his rising voice that you tremble at, a breath being forced out against his skin as you clutch tighter to him, the closeness that you share not near close enough. Part of you wishes you were stronger, that you would have never told him, seeing the reaction that erupts from him, the man that you know for his ceaseless flirting and humor, turned in to something that you would rather not know, by something that you do not understand. ‘A child is not his father.’ “I know.” It is all you say, moving your lips against his throat in a gentle caress, meaning more to you than you care to admit. “I know.” But it is not what you meant, the significance that those words hold to him lost on you. You are not afraid of this child, you are afraid of raising it, of being a mother when you are not ready. You are afraid not of what it will be but of yourself looking at it and hating it because it reminds you of that man, of the dreams that died the moment he touched you. You are afraid that you will not be able to love an innocent child for the sins of its father. It is this that you keep from him, this that you are disgusted in yourself for. He asks you if you have to see him again, and you shake your head against him, even as he tells you to protect yourself, pulling away as he searches, your heart falling into a spasm as your eyes meet his. “I don’t.” It is only seconds that you hold his gaze; seconds until you find that what little distance there is between the two of you is all too much.
“He knows that the Basin is my home, but I don’t think… I don’t think I would be worth the hassle of finding.” You recall the trouble that the girl and her family had gone through simply to see a healer, seek shelter, the horrible sound that the Sentinels had made to bar their passage, the way that it echoed through the valley. You sigh, resting your head against his neck once more. “Even if he came, I am safe there.” Hollow reassurances, to quell the worry that apparently resides within his heart, sate the wishing of yours. It is not the walls of the Basin that you want to make you feel secure, not the metal of some contraption to hold you, comfort you. “…Rohan,” But your words falter, a breath following the tenderness of the way you spoke his name. You close your eyes, trying your best to even the thumping of your heart, terrified that he may feel it against his skin, terrified that he would feel it and see all the things that you try so desperately to hide. “Would you… abandon me?” So very quiet, soft, that you almost hope he does not hear it, laying bare a part of your heart for him to keep or to destroy.
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like punching in a dream, breathing life into a nightmare
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[P] you'll never be what is in your heart
