/ hear you calling / me / {Ariadne / Greg?}
Mar 6, 2017 4:34:44 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Mar 6, 2017 4:34:44 GMT -5
What a strange being you are, God knows where I'd be
If you hadn't found me, sitting all alone in the dark
If you hadn't found me, sitting all alone in the dark
One would think that it's the sun that wakes him: his vision turns to marigolds and poppies, tree branches jutting out from his peripherals. But it's not. Instead, it's the chill that seeps into his bones, the hairs that stand up as the wind dances through the cracks in the wood and into their blanket. It's the drop in his stomach and the sharp intake of air.
Last night all he knew was her, her skin flush against his as the sky grew dark and the birds settled down for the night. The feeling of her hands in his, rough from years spent in the forest. Her chest rising up and down. The smell of her hair as his forehead pressed into the nape of her neck, his arm wrapped around her as they settled down for the night.
But this is the morning. Immediately his mind jumps to conclusions (as it always does), and he forces himself to slow down as he sits up, to go through his routine: she's gone, but she would have left a note. Her bag must be with her, but so must his water bottle, normally rested against hers in the corner of the room. She's fine, so is he.
He stretches, palms interlocked and reaching for the sky. His muscles relax and he can feel his joints popping back into place. The wind nips at him again as he reaches for his clothes, folded and gently placed next to their blanket, normally right next to hers. His stomach grumbles softly and he remembers that they saved enough of the salted fish for another few meals. But food comes later. Ariadne comes first.
The ladder creaks as he makes his way down, but he lands softly. There's nothing wrong, he assures himself as he looks around. He would have heard something, a rustling in the trees, a scrape of a knife. Instead all he has for company are the birds that chat to and fro, the rabbits that jump away as soon as he sets his feet on the ground.
He goes where her clues lead him, making their way towards the stream. Slowly his mind fights with him, jumping across synapses and reaching odd conclusions. But he repeats his mantra, repeats the evidence, step by step. When she left the first time he couldn't think, mind racing as fast as his feet could carry him as he crossed mountains and passed through trees with limbs like claws. District 4 was a lucky guess - or perhaps he just knew her better than he thought he did.
Truth be told he hadn't thought for months, but it all hit him when they were alone again, the war having ended with two figures racing into the night. He spent an afternoon hidden away from her and curled up in the hollow of a tree trunk, his lungs heaving and sweat dripping down his forehead. His heart racing, threatening to explode. His voice hoarse from his screams long silenced, carnal and desperate and unfair. He doesn't remember how long he remained there, whether if she found him or he wandered back to camp.
The thoughts return (as they must), but he makes sure to keep them from her. He figures that the only thing they'll do is hurt her. She still sees him in the drooping frame of the willows, the deep layers in the shadows, the eyes of the crows. Instead he holds her tightly when she's visited in her dreams, his hands stroking her back as the nightingales sing harmonies that turn her screams into sobs, her sobs into sleep. He feeds her soup from the fire, the spring onions picked fresh that morning and the trout caught that afternoon. They bathe together, laughing with the babbling brook as hands scrape at the grit beneath their fingernails.
But there are moments when he's alone and they race into his mind and he's back, wincing as ceramic digs into his skin, gasping from phantom limbs grabbing at his neck, tasting the iron as metal and blood combine and congeal, too much that he chokes. But then as soon as it starts it's gone, and he's back at the lake with a net and fish that yearn for freedom that they'll never get.
Sometimes he wonders if they're the fish. They're stuck in a cycle, the monster forever chasing them even as they lose him at the riverbends. For weeks they talk about moving after Ariadne turns 19, merging back into society, becoming lost in the sea; he laughs, the irony turning his chuckles sour. There's no way in hell he's taking that last name ever again. But still, she could go back if she chose to. There's only one place for people like him.
He doesn't blame her - never blames her. Mostly, he blames himself and the bravado, the words that spilled out of his mouth like cough syrup: cloying yet bitter and far too much. She did what she had to do, he knows that. He had a choice to make, and he made it.
He walks, the birds sing. He hums back.
Then there's a shout, and his trot turns into a sprint. The birds fly overhead and the ground blurs as his feet carry him onward. But there's no other sounds, no struggle to be heard as the stream gurgles, no snapping of branches that indicate the start of the war. He makes it to the clearing as he spots her, his run turning into two feet planted firmly in the ground. She sits, water jugs beside her, rocking back and forth. His heart tells him to go to her, to take her pain into his own. But he doesn't move, he can't move - she needs her space as much as he needs his own. She needs her time. He steps backwards into the shade, his skin breathing a sigh of relief.
When she walks towards him he meets her halfway. Greg take the water bottles and sets them on the ground beside them, his fingers interlocking with hers. His lips are gentle as he lifts their hands to his mouth, light kisses spreading across the back of her hand. His eyes close as his thumb draws circles into her skin, the movements rhythmic and soft.
When the days were between the two of them, they made their own language. A wave to the right meant it was dinner time. Three fingers up meant to wait. His index finger touching hers meant that there was so much more to say. He knows that Ariadne doesn't need a dictionary to know what he means, but he imbibes it into every movement, every embrace, everything he does.
You're safe. You're here. You're home.
What the hell would I be without you? (what the hell would I be?)
Brave face talk so lightly, hide the truth (hide the truth)
Brave face talk so lightly, hide the truth (hide the truth)