deathsplot / “cassandra.” his tone is serious, probably more serious than she’s ever heard it. there is no coldness in his voice but there is little warmth there either. a strange sort of indifference lies within him that was previously unheard of. “i always wondered if we’d meet again. it’s been a long time. i hope you’ve been well.” surprisingly he means this genuinely. despite everything he holds no ill will toward her & never has. he’d be the last one to judge someone for doing their duty.
@deathsplot + unprompted but really came for me
cassandra, like a whisper in tombstones; like a whisper of children, dangling feet on a cliff’s edge, laughter a swell like golden dust in their lungs. it meant something different then, left perilously between the red crackle of her blade: duty or freedom? duty or –
something wraps its way along catherine’s throat, like a hand clasping too tightly. her voice is hoarser than she wants, “christophe?” she swears just saying his name might kill her, might reopen all the festered wounds she kept bandaged up tightly. she’s stronger than this, but – she sacrificed him. she’s stronger than this, but – she left him to die. she’s stronger than this, but –
she didn’t realize how much time scraped away. that the timbre of his voice could be scratched away, pale, until it was back in its fullness and striking her, cold and impartial and formal, enough to bring a reprimand to her lips again just from the habit of it. she tries to swallow the tightness in her throat, fails. tries to not break with the ghost of him.
she’s stronger than this, but – “christophe, what the hell?” her voice breaks, eyes ashen even as she tries to smile. “you’re supposed to be dead.” she can’t apologize. rims of her eyes swollen from holding back tears, she finds that her foundations are only made of sand, bound to be blown or washed away, but she can’t apologize. if she does, what would that sacrifice have even meant? her resolution is shaken.
she wants to hold him. she wants to check if he’s real. she wants, she wants, she wants – “christophe, how have you been?” it’s a stupid question. she falters. gods, seiros, why does she never know what to say when it matters? i’m sorry burns a hole in her. “i’m …” she sucks in a breath, “i can’t believe you’re alive …” she clasps a hand over mouth, the glass of her eyes turning downcast as she swallows down a sob.
through the gaps in her fingers, catherine murmurs, “it’s just like you to give well wishes to your killer.” she laughs, and the motion is just enough to make tears fall.
