𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 . // SEL ACCEPTING .
‘ i can offer you my heart, though i have no idea how many more beats it shall sustain. ’ // @fenrirch
𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 ? mayhaps, because she was never meant for either ; a woman too holy to stay / too holy for life. promised to the dictated cause, engaged with demise. she’d liked to make an exception. just this once, if she may. once in private where the night of the living enshrouded mene, clung and held her ever-tightly, and she, in her pure besottedness, let it all happen. all over again which could lead to a second confession and a third, until the guilt out-wore itself like an ill-fitting dress stripped from her hips, finished and scrapped from the obligation list. she let this happen : your arms needy and desperate around her waist. all the whispers which only dim lights would bear witness to, and all the touches exuding scandal, shielded by the generous curtains of the hotel room from a stalking, hierarchical gaze. she begged not for forgiveness, she did not apologize for the single action that might have kept her alive in place, when, otherwise, she would have so effortlessly slipped away from our fingers.
“ plenty of them, i hope. ” a laugh pushed through a forced sicle-shape, the embarrassed flush of her cheeks no less romantic in nature. it’s grit teeth rather than amusement. the jaw clenched briefly, the sinew of her tender neck tense against your comforting breath. how could one think of it as anything other than torment, knowing she would take that warrior’s heart with her into the grave, instead of soothing its harrow grief ? yes, confessions were this terrible. and still, she had counted your battle scars, the magic trails, each flaw and scratch. lithe fingertips followed worn tissue to the crux of a violent pulse. her hand atop, resting, because ophelia wanted something else than to float in the pond. it was too cold in there. she’d rather crawl ashore and be warmed up by another foolish jest of yours. her sweet, heedless soldier with an eroding hero-complex. “ you are such a silly man — why must you be this dramatic ? ” though not overdone, for she simply did not wish to admit it. but a holy woman was not meant for confessions, or for clumsy dancing after too many a glass of wine, or for a tender peck after too sweet a girlish giggle. so you said what you said and tried your hardest to not kill her with it. because love, as always, equated to religion, and religion called for death. of course, you’d never let her go this far, but she would and you would indeed go this far, and you both knew this.
