#but his mother threw a very heavy decanter at his face so. thick glass. it was fleshy and bloody.

[mattodore]

they're the 🐺 and 🐇 emojis

[ekaterinakostrova]

I could hear your heartbeat.

She was afraid of this vision more than anything else. Especially now, when her feelings broke free with such an unbridled and destructive force. Feelings, which she has been trying so desperately to hide all those long years. From the very moment when her mother's burning and wet hand that squeezed her fingers weakened, and the light in the silver-blue eyes faded, turning into a clean and luminous glass, and then... this burning heat of her skin turned into the cold of death. Since that moment, the world has turned into the emptiness - the food turned to ash in her mouth, and the tide of life had left her stranded in utter neglect. And the walls that she built and strengthened all these years, he destroyed her fortress with such ruthlessness. She allowed herself to bare her feelings before him. Before this man.

She wanted to tell him for so long. For such a long period of time doubts and fear of these feelings pushed her away from him. She wanted to tell him who he was for her. To tell him how horrified she was when she felt how heavens and earth were being broken by a mighty power, ready to cast down its anger at the immortal troops of the Night Court’s army; to tell him, how she was pierced by his agony, when he looked at the battlefield, strewn with black ashes that left from his soldiers; to tell him, how the heart was pierced with sharp scorched blades, when she saw through his eyes bloody and twisted bodies, devoid of limbs. Rotting and smoldering bodies that left the heat of life. She wanted to tell him that she was happy that day, when Hybern was ready to bring down his power on them. She was happy that she would not go alone, but would annihilate into oblivion, along with the one to whom her heart was reaching out for.

And yet, she must endure further suffering. The pain she has been trying to avoid so hard, so long. The pain, which is more terrible and more insidious than the emptiness in which she has been living for the last two years. This pain was like a real agony, blood boiled with rage, and she squeezed the handles of a wide silver tray with such force that she feared that the metal would bend under her whitened fingers.

Morrigan’s silver-golden hair fell to the waist, her subtle and beautiful features flooded by the midday amber light of the sun that slipping through the black veil of curtains. The amethyst light of the sun's flaming eye fell on her chiseled high cheekbones. She closed her eyes, touching her full crimson lips to the man's scared brow, and light slipped over her long and thick copper eyelashes. Morrigan has always been beautiful. Beautiful and strong.

The passion with which she defended Cassian, full of anger and disgust for her, have not passed unnoticed. Sometimes it seemed to her that the legendary Morrigan, whose name aroused terror in front of entire armies, was ready to plunge into her throat the sword that she so skillfully owned. The sword with which she cut off the heads of her enemies.

A cascade of gold strands fell on the man’s bare and muscled chest, her well-groomed hands touched the place, where his heart was beating. And standing at the threshold of his bedroom, Nesta distinctly heard deaf and frequent beats of his heart, the vibration of his heartbeats echoed through the palm of another woman.

Nesta clenched her teeth, feeling the breath die on her lips, the tips of the carmine-brown eyelashes tremble, and the air boils from the inner fire of her dark power hidden within her. Ancient clans and noble houses of Illyria had knelt before this power, before this dark gift, before the woman; the power by which she tore off Keir's head, who was wishing to dethrone her sister. With such ease she tore his head from his shoulders, and with such composure she walked along the throne room, when the eyes of thousands, witnessing his death, turned to her bloodied face and burning leaden eyes.

And so, she stood here, on the threshold of his bedroom. He was wounded in the last battle, and last night she gratefully knelt before the healers, showering their legs with her tears and covered with kisses, she was so grateful for his salvation. What would happen with her if he had disappeared and left her?

She wanted to tell him who he was for her. She wanted him to know who she was to him.

And her eyes involuntarily fell on a tray with golden dishes full of hot and hearty food; on a crystal decanter with ruby ​​cold and tart wine; fried crispy bread with spices. Nesta tried to swallow a painful lump formed in her throat, which opened the breast with her dagger. She could barely breathe when she felt someone else's eyes on her face when she heard a sharp sigh, which fell from the lips of a beloved man.

She has dreamed that everything could be different. If they met in time of peace, in a place without war, without loss and suffering, without death and blood. In a world where the earth and mountains did not split from one of her touches; in a world, where her power could not take the lives of thousands with an instant snap of her finger, devouring and consuming bodies with the eternal mists of darkness. The darkness that was at the beginning and at the end of the world.

Morrigan’s amber locks fell on his face, when he saw her. With a sickly hoarse he was trying to rise on his elbows, when he weakly said:

“Nes...”

And from the sound of her name on his lips, she felt how the cold wind of the winter embraces her, as her body was pierced with a red burning cramp. The faint sound of his voice, hoarse and deep, he was still suffering from physical pain, from the deadly wound that he had received during the battle - the dagger’s tip nearly touched his heart. She tightened her grip on the lacy silver handles of the tray, taking a deep breath, but the body succumbed to tempting weakness, the emotions that come out so often now – the tray she was holding, fell out of her hands. Crystal split into hundreds of fragments, and ruby ​​wine spread on the wooden floorboards of bedchamber with bloody rivers. Several large splinters cut the phalanges of her fingers, and a few drops of her blood fell into a puddle of rowan wine before the scratches had fully healed, leaving no trace of the former cuts on the snow-white skin.

She did not dare to raise her eyes to him. She did not want him to see her shame. She showed them all enough. It was her and only her fault. She doubted before, and doubts were justified. She was called a witch and a furious beast. She was an evil and hateful sister who sent a little girl to a dense forest. She threw sharp and poisonous words. She was a whore, and she could easily give her body to men, just to lose herself in an empty pleasure. And he was ashamed of her in front of the members of the Inner Circle. Barely talked with her or looked at her in the presence of his High Lord, who hated her so much.

Who needs someone like her? Who wants to be with someone like her?

She was selfish, when she came here. She understood it. He had the right to choose, but she must let him go and forget. No, she would never forget. And her own heart will never beat for another. Perhaps in time, she will decide to have physical intimacy with someone, but she will never let another person into her heart. She gave her heart to this man for a long time, and for his sake would have gone to any sacrifice. Even if this means that she will be destined to spend all her immortality alone, to the very end of this world.

She looked for a while at the amethyst reflection of her face in the crystal fragments, and then without saying another word, turned around, leaving his bedroom with calm and confident steps. She could barely hear his voice, the sound of her name, which absorbed the walls of his house in Illyria.

She wanted to disappear and to escape, gone with the void, but now the lives of others depended on her decisions. And for so many, she became the light she was looking for herself in the dark moments of alienation and denial of the life by itself. And she knew that she did not want to, but they would have to meet again. And now she must build a cold wall again. The wall, which was destroyed in pieces by him.

She knew this house well enough, spending many hours alone during the first months of her stay in Illyria, accustomed to the scent of cedar and rain, mint and golden honey that permeated her hair and skin, as if these scents digging into her bones and soaking up her blood; accustomed to the ornate copper-carmine tongues of flame in the hearth of black obsidian, but she did not listen to the deadly song of crackling fire. She attentively listened to the soft sound of his steps. She could determine his mood by the steps he made - a measured and slow pace spoke about fatigue and exhaustion; speedy and heavy pace - about boiling rage; and sometimes he walked so slowly that she could hear the beating of his heart when he tried not to wake her in the morning by his departure.

Now she heard the heavy steps of his footstep soaked with weakness; heard his anguished breath as he was coming down the wooden staircase, holding on to the bloody sashes on his chest. She could smell the blood, dissolving in the air, mingling with the smell of massive oak wood. His wound opened again, and she was the cause of his new pain.

Her face was twisted with an animal grimace, when she tried to contain in herself the desire to turn to him, dive into his arms, support his weak body.

But she had enough. She will not allow anyone else to see her weakness. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to go forward, as if she were going to penance before the Mother.

“Stop!”

He cried with a groan as she opened the front door, and the silver of the door handle burned her hand with boiling water - his steps, despite the rapid breathing, and the painful weakness, accelerated. And in a moment, she could feel his broad and warm palm on her shoulder, but she melted into the blackness of the shadows. She has disappeared, hoping to find a bliss of loneliness.

To escape from his smell, his voice and heat of his body. She has always escaped, trying to drown out the golden thread that bound their hearts.

To escape from the vision of his and Morrigan when the spring sun shining envelops their bodies in a calm golden bliss.

And if she closes her eyes, mentally breaking the thread that united them, she will take some deep breathes of relief, pretend that this connection does not exist, that the connection is only ashes and ruins. But this radiance never faded away, it only burned with even greater and violent force.