Tearstained Hisses pv lena

It should have come to no surprise to Archer that Elena Clark spoke fluent French. Even in the language of his mother’s comfort he could not escape her relentless badgering. It was almost pitiful, how to her, she was doing him a favour, the moonchild so determined to shine upon pallid skin with her brighter side, when he only ever saw the darkness of her shadows. At this point in conversation, Archer did not carry any hatred or rage — these emotions were far too exhausting to summon, and as he slumped back in his chair, he only felt the soft, fuming sentiment of frustration. The vexation boiled his heart, yet its pleas for mercy will go unheard as he ground his teeth, setting his eyes on Elena’s in an attempt to maintain cordiality.

He held her gaze for longer than either of them was comfortable with, yet both must have had too much pride to glance away, to busy themselves within the books or talks of trivialities. They could have chosen this path countless times prior in their conversation, yet they had not. Beneath their masks, Clark must have genuinely wished to extend support, while Duncan sincerely hoped he could learn how to accept it. Perhaps that was what made them such a pair woven together by the Moirais needles. Yet that education would not be today, and as Archer finally blinked, breaking the taut strings that wove together their fates, his voice was much more calm and composed, not betraying of any sliver of emotion: “If you expect to go into a self-deprecating rant on why I am adamant in the belief that you should not like me, you are mistaken.”

“In fact, I am simply disgusted that a person of your nature would extend her saccharine pleasantries.” An eye roll hid behind a blink, a glance that slid elsewhere, refusing to meet Elena’s eyes. Not quite out of shame, but dismissal. A dismissal that was worse than any insults he could have slung or any scorn he could have screamed. A dismissal that meant he saw their relationship as having come to an end. A dismissal that meant he had made peace with that truth. He swept one hand over the table in front of him. Pages folded, books were scattered, the atmosphere returned to its unbearable tension. “Do not waste my time; I do not understand what you want from me.”

His eyes turned steely, returning the same accusation Elena had faced him with. If she was allowed to look at him with that challenge that raked over his skin and threatened to strip his heart naked, why would he not? He lifted his chin, and there was a confidence that edged his voice on, a self-awareness that made his reaction possible, a despicable nature for the world and its inhabitants that ave it strength. “You have made helping me your duty; yet you do not realise I have never asked for your help.”

Yet she did not realise that, inadvertently, she had brought to his life more harm than good.

He stood up with enough force that the chair clambered to the floor, skidding outwards as it hit a bookshelf. A few volumes rattled, none fell, and Archer paid the scene no attention despite the turning eyes of irritated classmates. He gathered his books with the sweep of an arm, before casting one final glance at Elena, over his shoulder as he took swift steps towards the door. In some ways, even if she did not pity him, he certainly pitied her. To spend an entire life trying to rescue the ones who did not need help — that was not a blessing, that was a curse. His final words to her for some time would be a piece of advice. His eyes glimmered, but this time, rather than with tears, it was with sincerity. “Please, for the love of God, get rid of your revolting saviour complex.”

Then, one hand running through his locks of deep hazelnut hair, his presence became mere steps along the floorboards, until he disappeared between the shelves and amongst the crowds. It was the final act of cordiality he would grant Elena Clark.

@Elena Clark | banner by Adeline Spinks