CARRY PROMPT FOR MY BELLE
an extremely self-indulgent meme.
One errant was not destined to find home or harbor; peace was fleeting, volatile, much against the wishes of one forever seeking it. Lulubelle had considered many a thing similar to some part of home lost, but they were simply that - parts, pieces of a whole, something like a haunting at times more than a memory. Were it not for that light, that undeterred and nigh irritating optimism, she would surely look upon him with familiar sunken eyes. Perhaps she had always preferred it that way, a picture of balance and maturity within bouts of playful gesture. Would be the world could have its share of that happiness were it so inclined to partake of it. Yet still, it would refuse it, firm in its stubborn unfairness. There was never a face that reminded her of that stern apathy more than Law’s. And, despite its ruggedness and distinct aura of disapproval, she was always drawn in, beaming as though it filled her with sunlight.
It went without saying that even in every attempt to remain presentable company, misfortune would rear its ugly head again to make a show of things. One misstep in just the right place while preoccupied with a fondness she has not felt in a long time takes with it the stability of footing, the slight twist of an ankle as everything shifts. Out of instinct she catches herself, and then follows his hands, together sparing her the fate of something much worse. So focused is the mind that it nearly misses the pain, a feeling that is nearly mute in comparison to the embarrassment. Perhaps the wince is not solely for the rush of soreness but the bruise that now resides on the surface of her collectedness. She was not this clumsy, not normally. Why, she was part cat, near literally - always light on her feet. There was nary a difference between it and a soiled suit at a party. Surely he would see it as inattentive at best, and at worst, she dared not imagine.
Had sheepishness not overtaken her then, surely it would have the moment her soles find themselves swept up. A flash of the sun in the eyes and then a looming shadow as his figure blocks it. The gasp that comes is not silent nor lacking in surprise, hands tucked safely to the chest. What skin brushes is warm, blushed, and what a sign it was that they were both alive. First the visage of misanthropy and then suddenly a dutiful knight. Was there never an end to the personalities he pulled from his sleeve? Of which was a mask and which had been honest? No matter its integrity, Lulubelle was utterly taken by this one - a handsome shade, something flitting between compassion and disorder.
❝ Oh, my, that’s- ❞ A flood of words and not a one of them manages to finish the exclamation. ❝ You don’t have to do that if you don’t want to. I’ve surely walked on much worse. ❞ Yet the way her cheek presses to the safety of his chest is to the contrary. What of her boastful independence? The display of dependability and self-strength? Alas, he’s made her forget it entirely. Never has a mildly twisted ankle felt so incurable.
❝ But, ❞ she speaks soft, the purr of a rolling tongue lacing an appreciative voice, ❝ I feel much safer in the arms of Death. ❞ Life without its opposite was a travesty. The precarious balance, the constant yearning - she knew it far too well. Lashes flutter, a coy little gesture. Please carry me, hopeful eyes plead, but she says naught on their behalf.
