[She almost laughs. Almost. Not because it's funny, or because she even really remembers what laughter feels like in the wake of Ezar's torrent of despair. But the very absurdity of the notion cuts a fine glittering line through the center of it like a well-placed swipe of a very sharp sword, like a thread of starry darkness through a sea of overpowering light.]
You have no idea. As though I could make him stop.
[She shifts her hand slightly, weaves their fingers together like a threat, and holds on — and wrests from Ezar, for just a fleeting span of moments, control over the flow of the Synchrony between them, emboldened by the singular sentiment that runs as deep inside her as his self-hatred runs inside him.
What she returns, then, through the connection forged between them, isn't words or images or even really an emotion. It's possessiveness, fierce as a wildfire, burning in counterpoint to the emptiness and isolation she's carried all her life, herself: the unparalleled elation of having found mine, mine, my thing, and the fangs she's bared when someone, anyone, anything, dared to take it away from her.
It's not that she has anything to prove. It changes nothing, showing this to him. But for a span of moments, it's her turn to flood the link between them, overpowering and overwhelming the ache of despair for as long as it rages and flows.
It's something different. It's unmistakably hers.
And maybe, just maybe, there's a measure of silence for him in that as well.]
no subject
[She almost laughs. Almost. Not because it's funny, or because she even really remembers what laughter feels like in the wake of Ezar's torrent of despair. But the very absurdity of the notion cuts a fine glittering line through the center of it like a well-placed swipe of a very sharp sword, like a thread of starry darkness through a sea of overpowering light.]
You have no idea. As though I could make him stop.
[She shifts her hand slightly, weaves their fingers together like a threat, and holds on — and wrests from Ezar, for just a fleeting span of moments, control over the flow of the Synchrony between them, emboldened by the singular sentiment that runs as deep inside her as his self-hatred runs inside him.
What she returns, then, through the connection forged between them, isn't words or images or even really an emotion. It's possessiveness, fierce as a wildfire, burning in counterpoint to the emptiness and isolation she's carried all her life, herself: the unparalleled elation of having found mine, mine, my thing, and the fangs she's bared when someone, anyone, anything, dared to take it away from her.
It's not that she has anything to prove. It changes nothing, showing this to him. But for a span of moments, it's her turn to flood the link between them, overpowering and overwhelming the ache of despair for as long as it rages and flows.
It's something different. It's unmistakably hers.
And maybe, just maybe, there's a measure of silence for him in that as well.]