[ a ludicrous little thought bubbles up in her brain as she watches the chandelier above her swing in wide, pendulous arcs: she hadn't expected newt's hand to be backed by such force. or — maybe the danger had been in forgetting he could look her in the eye and retaliate without a heartbeat of hesitation.
a breath in. a breath out. every inhale creaks into her lungs. every exhale wheezes out of her in a whistle of sound. the dazed expression she wears could be the thing of stargazers, lost in the twinkling lights from shortcircuiting electricity — if it weren't for the palm that cups her side, containing the flow of red that leaks between her fingers. a slow, warm trickle to combat the numb exhaustion that floods into her veins.
if it isn't done, it will be soon.
she catches her eyelids fluttering, listening to the drum of rhys' knuckles battering into bone and skin like a violent lullably. forces them open despite the urge to dream it all away as a nightmare, ignoring the stream of moisture that drips from the corner of her eye. when her head turns, a throbbing blur passing through her vision, her mouth opens on a soundless syllable. a small rasp in her throat that can't be heard over rhys' hammering fists, trying to drag him back from spiraling too far, from more blood that will cake into his lifelines long after it's been cleaned away.
you promised, she doesn't have the coherency to say, desperate and sharp. you promised.
not to kill him. not to keep that promise to newt, no matter how it must tear at fey rules to discard it. what he's done to newt isn't much better; as he withdraws, alina takes in the pulpy bruises scattered along newt's cheek, a brutal contrast to the eerie peace that settles over his unconscious expression (her fault, she quietly thinks, for not being able to get the job done herself). unconscious, or —
no, not dead. relief pierces through stomach-churning nausea in her stomach, long before she registers rhysand buckling. like he's trying to make himself impossibly smaller, compact, to escape what's been done.
it's enough to set her into motion. a fiery sting lances down her side when she rolls onto her knees, planting her palms down as her vision wobbles. it's clear she'll claw if she has to; clear she's trying to seize the opportunity to do something that doesn't feel like slowly bleeding out onto the floor; clear she can't quite get there as she crawls on her hands and knees to newt's body, only successfully pushing herself halfway before —
her teeth dig into her lip, trying and failing to seal away a hiss of pain. ]
I can't. [ it chafes at her to admit it. to simply ... give up. to seem so powerless, when she had managed to exist without needing to rely on her summoning as a crutch. her expression wrings in pain as she makes another effort, only to suddenly wind an arm around her stomach, hunching over. it stings at every part of her — her independence, her pride, her guilt — to admit, winded with strain: ] — I can't.
no subject
a breath in. a breath out. every inhale creaks into her lungs. every exhale wheezes out of her in a whistle of sound. the dazed expression she wears could be the thing of stargazers, lost in the twinkling lights from shortcircuiting electricity — if it weren't for the palm that cups her side, containing the flow of red that leaks between her fingers. a slow, warm trickle to combat the numb exhaustion that floods into her veins.
if it isn't done, it will be soon.
she catches her eyelids fluttering, listening to the drum of rhys' knuckles battering into bone and skin like a violent lullably. forces them open despite the urge to dream it all away as a nightmare, ignoring the stream of moisture that drips from the corner of her eye. when her head turns, a throbbing blur passing through her vision, her mouth opens on a soundless syllable. a small rasp in her throat that can't be heard over rhys' hammering fists, trying to drag him back from spiraling too far, from more blood that will cake into his lifelines long after it's been cleaned away.
you promised, she doesn't have the coherency to say, desperate and sharp. you promised.
not to kill him. not to keep that promise to newt, no matter how it must tear at fey rules to discard it. what he's done to newt isn't much better; as he withdraws, alina takes in the pulpy bruises scattered along newt's cheek, a brutal contrast to the eerie peace that settles over his unconscious expression (her fault, she quietly thinks, for not being able to get the job done herself). unconscious, or —
no, not dead. relief pierces through stomach-churning nausea in her stomach, long before she registers rhysand buckling. like he's trying to make himself impossibly smaller, compact, to escape what's been done.
it's enough to set her into motion. a fiery sting lances down her side when she rolls onto her knees, planting her palms down as her vision wobbles. it's clear she'll claw if she has to; clear she's trying to seize the opportunity to do something that doesn't feel like slowly bleeding out onto the floor; clear she can't quite get there as she crawls on her hands and knees to newt's body, only successfully pushing herself halfway before —
her teeth dig into her lip, trying and failing to seal away a hiss of pain. ]
I can't. [ it chafes at her to admit it. to simply ... give up. to seem so powerless, when she had managed to exist without needing to rely on her summoning as a crutch. her expression wrings in pain as she makes another effort, only to suddenly wind an arm around her stomach, hunching over. it stings at every part of her — her independence, her pride, her guilt — to admit, winded with strain: ] — I can't.