Tearstained Hisses pv lena

Fingers trailing on the dusty hardback of several bound tomes, she took a deep breath, coming to halt upon reaching a specific section of a library she now knew by heart - every alley had been explored, and while she had not, to her greatest disappointment, been able to devour every book, she could say with great confidence at least half had seen her navy gaze. Standing in one of the farthest corners, relatively to the front door, the golden haired was completely absorbed by a highly complicated decision - which deceased, depressed russian would be granted her attention for the evening. Though the young girl was barely scratching the surface of russian literature, Kafka and Dostoevsky had quickly become one of her favourite autumn re-reads, and tonight's moody weather offered the perfect opportunity.

Droplets of water gently tapped the window, a cup of fuming hot chocolate awaited in her common room, plaids had been disposed and her cat was curled on the most comforting armchair of the entire room, therefore saving a spot for the blonde to crash into. She took a few more seconds to truly bathe in the moment, an unshakable feeling of content gripping her guts, a warm, orangy hue of yellow that made her chest float. She adored it, adored when the world seemed to still itself, when she wished she could capture this moment and treasure it forever.

Finally deciding to not decide, she grabbed three volumes, clutching them tightly against her chest before pivoting, headed straight towards the comfort and peace of the Ravenclaw common room. She truly adored her house. Not only did she somehow managed to fit perfectly in, but she truly felt like it was where she belonged. Basking in the amber/tangerine feeling that seemed to only spread further, Elena was about to set a foot in front of the other and flee when a barely hushed voice made her freeze - “This is bullshit." It took her less than a few seconds to ponder between the urge to lock herself in her tower and spend the evening alone, and the insatiable curiosity that was, unfortunately, part of the house pride she had demonstrated earlier. As always, she gave in and turned around, fully prepared to defend her choice should the remark adress itself to the volume she was currently holding.

The corner where had risen the foul sentence was so darkly lit the blonde thought her brain was fooling her, yet upon further inspection she indeed discerned the outline of a student leaned over a heavy book. Taking a tiny step towards them, she couldn't shake the feeling she recognised this silhouette - shoulder-length waves, hands violently running through them, and this essence, one she felt strangely drawn to. A moody one, something poets would spend hours trying to write down, failing each time. Like someone was slowly stealing the air from your lungs, giving it back full force at times before taking it away again. Something that choked you from the inside, yet you strangely found content in it. One no one would understand anyway, so why bother voicing it out.

"Archer ?"

As hazel eyes hardened, ocean ones softened — despite the ice shards ripping her skin from the mere strength of his gaze, the whirlpool of conflicting emotions contained within it felt like too much of an echo to the young girl's heart to simply look away.

Though they were not exactly acquainted, even if he was a faithful member of the club she had managed to assemble, she could not help but feel akin to the boy's soul. He appeared to be drifting through the same opaque veil woven between realities, one so thick it often restrained her movements, accumulated in her lungs like dust and choking her. It had always felt like a burden of her own, one she had to constantly fight in the most utter loneliness. The rest of her peers seemed to be gliding through life with such easiness she had often doubted her right of belonging in this estranged world. She felt disconnected from daily interactions, as though someone else was piloting her own body and accomplished what a person was expected to. A walking paradox, as her own emotions seemed so foreign and familiar. She often struggled to name what she was currently experiencing, feeling like her emotions were not her own. And yet, at the same time, she felt them stronger than one could bear. Sadness brought her to her knees, feeling like her heart was drowning in a sea of sorrow, water filling up her lungs and throat until her breath turned hollow ; joy made her head spin, wings spreading from her collarbones to soar high in the sky ; love felt like her heart suddenly grew too big to be contained by her ribcage, desiring to hold the world closer to her chest. Jealousy and anger were the worst, ones she feared and tried her mightiest to suppress.

She often experienced the world in a myriad of feelings, each given a distinct hue. In that universe, she was a blank palette - made to reflect each painter's emotions, an aid to achieve their canva. Though with each wash, some colors subsited, ones she could not scrap off. She didn't mind. Her odd assortiment of mismatched tints was the living proof she had a purpose, and that it was fulfilling. So why would it matter if she can't remember her original color anymore ?

If Archer could be currently captured in a frame, he would be a seasick, very dark cyan - the colour of the ocean after a nigh time storm. He cocked his head upward, not tearing his eyes from hers, which made her squirm slightly and tilt her gaze down. At that point, any normally constituted being would inquire about the reason for those tear-streamed cheeks, attempt at find a solution or at the very least indulge into comforting, yet something told her it was not the right course of action. As witnessed by a certain celestial body way up in the sky, her own frantic sobs under the stars were most of the time without cause, and the sheer thought of someone forcing her to explain something she herself couldn't name was disagreeable, to say the least.

Lost in her own turmoil, she emerged as her name left his lips, in a tone he probably wanted to sound assured. That strangely made the edges of her lips curl slightly, and she took a step forward, deposing the heavy volumes she was carrying on top of the book laying there. She caught a glimpse of the title - crying spells, she would have to look into that - before it got buried under the sheer size of her russian literature. Dropping herself onto the armchair besides his, she gestured towards her loot. "I am having a hard time deciding, would you mind helping ?"

Her left eye twitched as he openly ignored her attempt at aiming the conversation towards a more light, pleasant area. Most would have quite literally dove on the offer, desiring discuss any trivial matter rather than the grotesque truth of human afflictions. For as much as painters, poets and writer adore capture its depth and beauty, the hideous authenticity that lies beneath every tear, every tremoring hand is simple. Humanity is weak. Mankind shakes under the bare weight of its own existence. Their brains poison themselves, their blood thicken in their veins, their air chokes them from within. Without reason, they crumble, unable to rise again, some unable to support this damnation a second longer and decide to cease it altogether. Humanity is weak. Causing its own demise.

And yet.

And yet there is beauty in vulnerability. There is beauty in tearing up at the mere thought of one's own insignificance. There is sacred in carrying a soul so large our shoulders break beneath it, there is divine in suffering. There is an ethereal quality in feeling. Humanity is beautiful.

Though humanity, at this exact second, was quite frustrating. Over the years, the raven had mastered the art of polite conversation, of locking gazes for the correct amount of time, of observing without being perceived. He was supposed to graciously accept her divergent conversational path, and stride through insignificant meadows together. Instead, he had thrown her head first into a thorny bush. Delightful. The carefully written out script had been shred down to pieces with a simple glare of his hazel eyes, and the blonde's brain had reached a shortage of words.

Until a flicker, barely noticeable, led her to think she might not be the only being stuck at the door between worlds, wondering how others seemed to enter without needing any key. Perhaps then the layer of skin she wore between her heart and the world could thin, though it remained glued to her skin at a few places. Her shoulders lost the tension that had lodged itself between the bones of her spine, and her entire figure seemed to shift — it was a barely perceptible, almost insignificant gesture, yet one regardless.

His hand swept aside the pile of old tomes, revealing what was once dissimulated : crying spells. Hmm. As it was fairly obvious he required neither pity nor affliction, she instead slipped into an analytical stance, eyes sharpening. While she had not the sufficient knowledge of his character to determine any recent incoherences in his behavior, she still had eyes and a mind to observe what was exposed in plain sight. Which was, if one were to think of it, rather contradictory, how he seemed to hide his woe and yet plead for one to notice the sadness gripping his throat. Tears, and the ghost of dying ones, were and had streamed down his cheeks, so often a darker mark subsisted at the corner of his eyes. A deeply red sensation reached her senses, one of rotten, tired anger. He was... sick of endless tears, and appeared to be desperate enough to assimilate a complete stranger to a professional armed with answers.

“I’m researching depression.” The words rose sharply, with neither tact nor care. “Do you think I’m depressed, Elena?” The very tone of the question brought her back to her studies, when teachers would ask the very same, almost rhetorical inquiry, expecting a unique answer. Navy eyes narrowed, as her head tilted to the right, running an rational gaze on every aspect of his person. The young girl was not an expert in this field, yet she had come across some fairly detailed representation of this disorder, and a few details remained fixed in her memory.

While she was neither an acquaintance of the lonesome boy, and therefore could not judge matters such as behavioral changes, diminished interest, weight loss ; nor a composant of his brain, leading to her incapacity in judging feelings of worthlessness, guilt or recurrent thought of death ; some telling signs seemed to have become part of his very essence, and thus visible to an observent gaze. "You have hypersomnia," she theorized, eyes running over the dark circles around his eyes. While, in common minds, eyebags were obvious signs of a heavy lack of sleep, those dark areas surrounding one's eyes had actually higher chance of being symptoms of their lying in bed for a considerable amount of time. This could, of course, mean he might simply lay there, eyes wide open but a certain slowness seemed to surround his limb, as though he might drift to sleep at any given chance. Which was ironic, given who he was conversing with. "You lack interest in things you pursue, have trouble concentrating," she continued, dangerously flirting with guessing yet the constant flicker of his eyes towards the shelves standing on their right was both indicating lack of attention and restlessness. "And uncontrollable tears," she added with a glance towards the book lying between them. That concluded what she could observe from what he had given her, not much yet enough to confirm the sword of Damocles dawning over him.

And there were other hints, ones words can't explain. This rotten teal, like a decaying pond, scarily draining colour surrounding him, and the weariness being in his presence weighted on the blonde's soul. "Since how long ?" She asked, not bothering to utter the obvious — depression was written on every tired line of his face.

Though the weariness they both carried deeply nested within their bones, that impending doom hoovering above their head, threatening to slice at any second — though their sadness was crafted from the same starless sky, their respective opinion about this flock of breathing creatures they were supposed to belong were polar opposites.

Elena ; mind sickened by a steady, relentless poison, one that spread to her heart each time she let go of the fortress she was constantly erecting between them ; needed to believe the world was beautiful. Plagued by ugliness, by a thick and darkened liquid slowly invading every corner of her mind, thoughts slowly rotting and decaying until what remained left a bitter aftertaste linger, plagued by what humanity carried of most horrendous, she needed to cling onto external beauty. Unable to dream but of distorted creatures, limbs sticking out at odd angles and teeth falling out of twisted smiles, antlers growing continuously — she needed to sink into beauty, purge herself from within and believe that maybe, one day beauty will seizer her bowels and fend off the ugliness she carried.

In comparison to the putrid psyche she beared every day, each flaw, each weakness or struggle mankind possessed, etched into their skin in iron-hot crescent, was beautiful. Yes, living was a burden, one of which you escape marked, scarred. And yet scars were beautiful. Testaments to the pain and suffering one had to walk through, testament of their strength, for they were still standing, still fighting, despite the weariness growing on their soul.

The scars Archer carried were embedded into his very essence. A walking creature of suffering, spilling tears in its wake. Eldritch being, and yet one the moonchild ached to aid regardless. She knew what is felt, to endure life without a heart to stand by yours, for your lips to remain shut as your entire being begs for help. An oath had been uttered the day she had been on the very edge of a bottomless cliff, ready to throw herself into the pits of hell. A promise to herself that she would never stand by and watch someone else standing on the edge of that cliff, ready to fall, without reaching out. If she could not prevent them, nor pull them back, then at least they would have company within tartarus. Let me be your company.

One would get claw marks etched onto the tender skin of their heart trying to help Arched Duncan, but hers was strong enough to endure his misplaced wrath, one meant at himself but that shone through every creak of his skin to hurt everyone standing too close to him. He could scream, hiss and bite, and her demeanour would not change an inch.

What she had not expected, though, were compliments. For the duration of a heartbeat, a frown creased the smooth porcelain of her forehead, before returning to its previous appearance, unfazed by his obvious tentative at directing her attention away. She had seen the inner bridge between the two of them shut tight, she had felt the connection they had shared for a split second withdraw, both an unfortunate consequence of his heart closing once more, retreating in the labyrinth protecting it from external gazes.

"I am not pitying you," she hissed back, equally aggressive. Truth be told, she had never understood the negative connotation of this word. Pity was, quite literally, feeling sorrowful before the sufferings of others. She did not know who had decided to weave a hint of disdain and superiority into this word, but suddenly one of the virtues of mankind had shifted into a flaw. A pause, before calmness once again invaded her. They could dance around each other forever, yet the raven had the distinct impression honesty would be greatly more appreciated than any ordinary sentences of convenance. "I like you," she hesitantly said, head tilting to one side. "I want you to trust me enough to lower the spikes you erected around your heart."

Immediate dismissal, as though the words had stung through the armor he carried around his limbs, as though the words burned a trail of greek fire into his flesh — venom, poisonous, or something more deadly? A promise, one a tender voice has uttered in the intimacy of a home, at the core of a moment woven with childish glee and care. One this disappearing allegory of comfort had broken, betrayed, cemented in a pool of thick and swarmy distrust left rotting at the center of a rotting heart.

In the face of chaos, of pain and shattered illusions, mechanisms grew, independent to one's will. When Love had failed to prevail, when its promises were left waiting in the wings of an abandoned theater, the heart of younger children distorted themselves. Some grew thorns, refusing to starve in a desertic world, retreating on themselves and preferring treating anything remotely similar to what had hurt them like a plague, something dangerous by its possibility of hurting once more. Others dug both hands into the beating organ and stretched it beyond measure, extending its surface until it is able to cover the universe entirely, hoping that by such a painful process, any modicus of the thing they starved for would find its way to them. Elena belonged to the latter. Her heart knew no boundaries, no frontier, no limits. Every feeling ever experienced was multiplied by the sheer space of its home, and yet somehow no matter how large she stretched it, the space never sufficed. The dreadful feeling which makes your sweat curl on itself, stomach clench and iron hands spurge from the pit of hell to drag you beneath with them — anxiety —, this feeling was tethered to her heart, at times preventing the very thing she yearned for to reach it at all.

What occured, then, when a closed up heart met one open beyond measure?

Denial, anger — a lullaby sung before. The blunt hatred her attempt at reaching out met did not manage to falter her sincerity. She, in fact, knew precisely what she was saying. It was her gift and her burden, to have a mind so painfully aware of every inflexion of her tone, the consequences of one word rather than the other, the effect it had on herself and on her peers. It gave her every interaction a sense of insincerity she did not possess, one that was internal, as no one ever notice what boiled beneath the surface. Archer, for as closed as he was, had the piercing eyes of a hawk. The knowledge he could see through what she would attempt to say to calm him down, or tame him, only pushed her to be as sincere as one can be.

And he ought to know it. Why then, would he recoil at her honesty? Why was the thought of someone appreciating his character provoking such disgust?

If the daughter of the moon had to guess, she would only have to turn towards herself. Though the shadowed parts of her conscience had progressively settled over the past year, their existence remained painfully obvious, and the thought of anyone expressing their appreciation of it brewed a low hiss within her bowels. They would either be lying, or have secondary intentions. For someone like Archer, who wore his insecurities like an armour, who had so intricately woven his detestable traits into his persona, someone liking him implied they would accept his blunt reality as a whole, which would likely cause in his heart the very same feeling the situation above would have caused in her own.

"Pourquoi pas?"

Her mother's origins naturally settled on her tongue, the syllables rolling out of her mouth with no visible surprise.

"Pourquoi est ce que l'idée que quelqu'un puisse t'apprécier provoque une si vive réaction chez toi?"