When a heart shatters, you can always see the exact moment in which it happens. While these moments can be repaired, the breaks stitched and glued, they still mark a once flawless soul. The chill of a Spring's night was nothing compared to the ice stabbing into the heart of the young Claith. Her knees ached from pressing so long to the tiles of the Bastion bridge and her eyes burned from her unending tears, which flooded down her cheeks like unruly sea waves, threatening to drown the little village on its edge named Hope.
Her heart did not shatter when she begged for her lover, her heart did not shatter when lies won against her truths, nor did it even shatter when she was told her own self was to be locked away with the other Claith. It fractured and cracked with the fissions caused on her heart by the scorn around her. It was not till the moment that two sentences brushed against her that her heart turned to two and four and more pieces as it crumbled like sand in a toddler's first. Those two terrible sentences that made death seem like a welcome choice.
"You will keep the baby."
"I still love you."
The man that now appeared monstrous in his crown of flowers dared to utter the words of love to the hysterical woman who was drown in her own sorrow upon the Bastion tiles. The Drowdar that told the monster he would take her baby when it was born because he was the victim of her crimes; because she had apparently sinned against the nonexistent Spirit and spat upon marriage. The woman dug her fingers into her hair as she sobbed, feeling as small as a mouse at the feet of bickering giants.
She was physically aching from her soul's pain, a dull stabbing at her head causing her eyes to refuse the light and squeeze back shut against it as it was too much to bear. Her cheeks were flushed from her grief, the effort of breaking threatening to crumble her once more. Slowly, she was abandoned on the Bastion tiles by the Drowdar and flower crowned man, abandoned to wail in complete and utter heartbreak for when she had just reached a moment of happiness it had,of course, been ruined quickly again. Her world tilted on its axis and she fell to lie against the stones until she was demanded to leave, each step back to her home being another three fallen steps into the spiraling hopelessness below, her strength alone not enough to drag herself back up.
When a heart shatters, you can always see the exact moment in which it happens. While these moments can be repaired, the breaks stitched and glued, they still mark a once flawless soul. The chill of a Spring's night was nothing compared to the ice stabbing into the heart of the young Claith. Her knees ached from pressing so long to the tiles of the Bastion bridge and her eyes burned from her unending tears, which flooded down her cheeks like unruly sea waves, threatening to drown the little village on its edge named Hope.
Her heart did not shatter when she begged for her lover, her heart did not shatter when lies won against her truths, nor did it even shatter when she was told her own self was to be locked away with the other Claith. It fractured and cracked with the fissions caused on her heart by the scorn around her. It was not till the moment that two sentences brushed against her that her heart turned to two and four and more pieces as it crumbled like sand in a toddler's first. Those two terrible sentences that made death seem like a welcome choice.
"You will keep the baby."
"I still love you."
The man that now appeared monstrous in his crown of flowers dared to utter the words of love to the hysterical woman who was drown in her own sorrow upon the Bastion tiles. The Drowdar that told the monster he would take her baby when it was born because he was the victim of her crimes; because she had apparently sinned against the nonexistent Spirit and spat upon marriage. The woman dug her fingers into her hair as she sobbed, feeling as small as a mouse at the feet of bickering giants.
She was physically aching from her soul's pain, a dull stabbing at her head causing her eyes to refuse the light and squeeze back shut against it as it was too much to bear. Her cheeks were flushed from her grief, the effort of breaking threatening to crumble her once more. Slowly, she was abandoned on the Bastion tiles by the Drowdar and flower crowned man, abandoned to wail in complete and utter heartbreak for when she had just reached a moment of happiness it had,of course, been ruined quickly again. Her world tilted on its axis and she fell to lie against the stones until she was demanded to leave, each step back to her home being another three fallen steps into the spiraling hopelessness below, her strength alone not enough to drag herself back up.
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