[P] where the light breaks through

[Atreus]

over the moaning bones
of those who quit and chose to remain

 
Where resistance was expected, he was met only with acceptance, and he sought solace in the resurgence of her closeness. Their eyes met and for a long while he was content to hold her gaze, drinking in their warmth until he exhaled the gentlest breath he’d breathed in five years, and closed his eyes. For all the wretched things he’d done he didn’t deserve a glance of recognition from Fiona, let alone her affection, her heart of which his own paled in comparison to.

Where hers was a beacon of beacon of light, all things warm and tender and right, his own was shriveled and covered with the same black ichor that polluted his veins, pumping hate and sin rather than blood. It was a thing to be pulverized and tossed away where no one could ever hope to find it, and yet here came Fiona, plucking it from the waste and daring to salvage it – perhaps she had heard it singing for her.

Hooking his neck carefully over Fiona’s own, Atreus breathed easy, and for the first time he could properly remember, a heavy weight came crashing down from his shoulders. His breath was warm against her withers and he tucked his head into her slender shoulder. “Oh, Fiona,” he said, mellifluous and smooth and sincere as he tugged her just a little closer against his side, “Pray be with me, always.”

@Fiona
 
“Speaking.”

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