[P] sweet like cinnamon

[Elena]

In times of high emotions, of turmoil, Elena thinks about the women in her life who have influenced her most. Different faces come to her at different times, but today, she knows who stands at her left and at her right without even having to turn to see them.

Aletta on her right.

Lilliana on her left.

The mare who was once dappled when Elena had been young is as silvery and white as a full moon. She is beautiful, and the wisdom coats her face like frost. “Own up to your mistake, Elena,” she says, in that tone that is so familiar, the same voice she used when Elena first ran after Aerwir, when she was so steadfast to become a fighter for all the wrong reasons. “This was not one of your finer moments, but we are mortals and therefore prone to mortality.” But Aletta is not so aware of the immortality pumping through Elena’s veins.

Lilli rests her head on her friend’s shoulder, she has been through this herself, has loved a heart that loves another, has been the other woman. Has hurt and torn apart a relationship for the sake of her own love. “All hearts love differently,” she says to Elena. “And in different ways.” She tells her and it sounds as if she is really here, beside her. “Your love is no less valid.”

Elena, they say.

And disappear.

He did not cherish her love, but she could not stop herself from giving it. Elena loved—easily, fiercely, completely. Loving had changed her, had made her better. She would not trade it for the world, not even to spare herself the heartache of their separation. She has a lifetime of memories to sustain her, it was all there in the face of her daughter, their daughter (because deny all she likes, Elliana is still his by blood, even if she is Azrael’s by bond). But it had hardened her, that loss, making her into the creature that stands here today.

For a moment, she watches Boudika, studying her. Elena wanted to hate her just for who she was, who she was in Ten’s life and who she, would never be. Boudika was beautiful, fierce, strong and in many ways, she reminded Elena of Rishiri, her raven haired aunt that she has not seen in so long. She had that same fire to her eyes, that same steel beneath her gaze. She admired that, wished she could have the same, but she didn't envy her in that way. Could not bring herself to envy her for that. It just wasn't her lot of life to be that stormy of a sea.

And she was content with it. She would never be as wild as the sea nor as strong. She was like the reckless waterfall, throwing itself over the cliff side.

She reaches out with her empathy, lets it kiss upon the crimson woman’s brow and then sink into her flesh, work through her veins and muscles, root out whatever emotions may be there because there had to be more than this anger, this hatred for Elena. And then it comes back to her, curls into her palm and then her chest. And there is a part of her that wants to rip Boudika apart. Her frame might be narrow, her stature slight, but it would be a mistake to believe her weak.

Elena will never realize that this fight, this energy, this passion, is one thing that her and Boudika both hold. Perhaps, in that one small respect, they are similar. Perhaps it is that very similarity that had attracted his attention in the first place.

She burns with shame and anger.
It had been reduced to smoldering embers.
But they flare now and they lick at her ribcage, the underside of her tender heart.
They pool heat in her cheeks and her eyes burn in a way that has nothing to do with tears.

She has never actively wanted to be invisible until now. She has never wanted to disappear until this moment.

She should know better by now, but of course she doesn’t.

She should have learned to keep everything inside the same way she always has, should have known by now that nothing good ever comes of revealing anything sincere. Boudika is barbed wire to anything soft she tries to show her, and she cuts Elena before she has the chance to retreat back inside of herself. Elena remains quiet, as if willing herself to fall into the backdrop.

Her brow furrows and then she wipes it clean. Part of her, some distant part, wants to shout, to scream, to ask why she was never enough—to demand answers. But the other part of her is defeated and tired, so tired. She cannot imagine this, cannot imagine what he said to her. She cannot survive it.

She takes care to not reply immediately even though the answers fly to her lips. She wants to lash out, it would be so much easier to speak in hatred and scorn. But Elena can picture what she looks like right now, what she would sound like if she spoke such a way, and she hates herself for it. So the voice that comes is one that is feather soft, with the lightness of paper caught in a breeze. “Stay as long as you like in Terrastella, Boudika,” the anger, the jealousy settles in her bones and it aches. He teeth rattle in her mouth down to her jaw, but she smiles anyway, and it surprised they do not shake loose when she speaks. “The West opens its arms to you.”

Elena departs, and this is the first time, kindness has ever tasted as bitter as saltwater as it crashes like waves down her throat to settle against the tender stained glass of her heart.

picture by cannon <3
@Boudika