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[OOC] Let Anger Be Your Guide
one-sided Harth/Melaka, pre-Fray.
You dreamed of her. Your dress was crumpled under your arms, your hands folded over your stomach and you're dying all over again. You pull your hands away and the blood has seeped into your fingernails. No one was here. You are alone. We are alone. The blood ruined your dress. Mother would be so sad. And then you die--
--Only to wake up gasping, fingers clawing at the darkness. A whimper escaped your throat, unheard over the dim of cars above your head, the steady rolling sound drumming away your dream. You are alive. You died. You want to die.
Instead, you shifted in your bed and said, "Melaka."
You cannot see here. The window is too far to cast enough light to see, but you and Melaka share a soul. You can feel her stretch her hand out to you, without thought, without hesitation and you claw at it like a beast. Not that she noticed. Melaka was stone to your feeble strength. You are feeble. The familiar anger is in your blood, but right now, you needed her.
You needed Melaka.
"What is it?" She mumbled, tightening her grip. Needy, greedy Melaka.
"Nothing. Bad dream."
"Another one?" Melaka tried to wake herself, "Do you remember it?"
You laughed and it's like a dying wheeze. You are so weak. "No, nothing."
"Rutting dreams," Melaka said with some anger as she sat up. Again, you see nothing, feel only the steady pulse of her hand, but you know. You almost want to tell her Melaka, I was a girl, I was beautiful, I was ugly, I had it all, I lost it all, I miss dying so much.
Instead you just said, "It's just a dream."
"You're shaking," she noticed and you were. You always woke up badly. You were never in control. The anger sings to you, slay your weakness you are a slayer.
"It'll pass." All things do. One day, Erin will die. Melaka will die. You will die, but you will also remember the most.
"Come here, Harth."
You let her pull you against her. Her heartbeat is your heartbeat. You feel warm. Nothing can hurt Melaka. She is stone and horror, too tough to hold hands. She broke your fingers once. The steady hum of anger and weakness is still in you, but Melaka, by instinct, ran her fingers through his hair and it ebbed away, like the blood on you.
"We should do a grab tomorrow," she said suddenly, "Some meat on your bones will make you feel better."
See, she thinks you weak, you will always be weak "Erin said no more grabbing."
"Erin doesn't have to know," her gaze is fixed on you, darkness be damned, "And you won't tell her."
Twins against the world. "No."
"It'll be slam," Melaka said, relaxing once you admit it, "It'll make everything better."
Nothing gets better, but you love Melaka.
When you turn, when Icarus shakes you awake on the cool stone floor, you remember that love.
Now you are strong.
You dreamed of her. Your dress was crumpled under your arms, your hands folded over your stomach and you're dying all over again. You pull your hands away and the blood has seeped into your fingernails. No one was here. You are alone. We are alone. The blood ruined your dress. Mother would be so sad. And then you die--
--Only to wake up gasping, fingers clawing at the darkness. A whimper escaped your throat, unheard over the dim of cars above your head, the steady rolling sound drumming away your dream. You are alive. You died. You want to die.
Instead, you shifted in your bed and said, "Melaka."
You cannot see here. The window is too far to cast enough light to see, but you and Melaka share a soul. You can feel her stretch her hand out to you, without thought, without hesitation and you claw at it like a beast. Not that she noticed. Melaka was stone to your feeble strength. You are feeble. The familiar anger is in your blood, but right now, you needed her.
You needed Melaka.
"What is it?" She mumbled, tightening her grip. Needy, greedy Melaka.
"Nothing. Bad dream."
"Another one?" Melaka tried to wake herself, "Do you remember it?"
You laughed and it's like a dying wheeze. You are so weak. "No, nothing."
"Rutting dreams," Melaka said with some anger as she sat up. Again, you see nothing, feel only the steady pulse of her hand, but you know. You almost want to tell her Melaka, I was a girl, I was beautiful, I was ugly, I had it all, I lost it all, I miss dying so much.
Instead you just said, "It's just a dream."
"You're shaking," she noticed and you were. You always woke up badly. You were never in control. The anger sings to you, slay your weakness you are a slayer.
"It'll pass." All things do. One day, Erin will die. Melaka will die. You will die, but you will also remember the most.
"Come here, Harth."
You let her pull you against her. Her heartbeat is your heartbeat. You feel warm. Nothing can hurt Melaka. She is stone and horror, too tough to hold hands. She broke your fingers once. The steady hum of anger and weakness is still in you, but Melaka, by instinct, ran her fingers through his hair and it ebbed away, like the blood on you.
"We should do a grab tomorrow," she said suddenly, "Some meat on your bones will make you feel better."
See, she thinks you weak, you will always be weak "Erin said no more grabbing."
"Erin doesn't have to know," her gaze is fixed on you, darkness be damned, "And you won't tell her."
Twins against the world. "No."
"It'll be slam," Melaka said, relaxing once you admit it, "It'll make everything better."
Nothing gets better, but you love Melaka.
When you turn, when Icarus shakes you awake on the cool stone floor, you remember that love.
Now you are strong.