#false prophet.

Since the bonfire, something in Sylvianne had been simmering. The coals of the fire had long since cooled, they stayed on the top of the mountain, blackened and waiting-- but the spark stayed inside her chest. It had burned a hole and it ate at the nice things that padded her thoughts and she recognized this feeling as anger.  She didn’t like to dwell and as a result, she found herself in a familiar doorway, raising her fist to knock on Bastian’s door. 

Three short, sharp sounds before her hand came to a rest by her side. Perhaps her emotions were unwarranted, she was certain he’d tell her if that were the case-- but jealousy, a sickly yellow feeling, raised up and gripped her by the back of the neck. They had an arrangement, and beyond that, something akin to a friendship.

@basdecsey​

Returning to Augustine was easy, it was the settling back in that always provided problems. Sylvianne shut her empty suitcase, pushing it under her bed, stunned by the fact that this would be the last winter term she’d be arriving to at the university. Her four years at the school had slipped through her fingers like sand; the memoirs scattered around her room to remind her that this was a chapter she was soon to close.

Framed images with friends sat on her desk: her pressing a kiss to Kieran’s cheek, her fingers linked with Bas’ as they walked through the cloistered halls. Fall at the school, with the leaves dripping gold and ruby and their smiling faces, manufactured joy. Sylv rubbed at her collar bone, cool fingers touching the place above her heart: as if the touch would ease an ache that seemed to settle there.

Sylvianne wasn’t one to linger on poor feelings, she sat up and reached for the last box on her bed. It was wrapped in green paper and tied decadently with a broad ribbon and bow, with Bastian’s name etched onto the tag. She stowed it under her arm and left the room, working down the hallway to find a room she was certain she could pick out in the dark.

Leave a “Value Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character telling yours how they feel about them.

Sylvianne tucked her chin into the dip between Bastian’s broad shoulder and throat, pressing a kiss there. Through thick lashes she watched the crowd as it watched them; her arms wrapped around him, her eyes laughed. This was the part that she was good at, she was a thespian of life, an actress on a stage built by herself. They ate it up and the corner of Bas’ full mouth twitched up into a smile. Her actions were for them, but her words were his alone, prompted by one too many glasses of champagne, sending her teetering towards unknown territory.

She’d read too much Neruda before they’d left that evening, perhaps she was feeling inspired. “I think you are half my soul–” Sylv murmured, smiling against his skin. She didn’t have a heart to give, but she could give him the greater part of her. Her hand reached for his, twining their fingers; the bracelet he’d given her glinted on her thin wrist. Had she been poetic, she’d of likened them to something powerful. Hades and Persephone, ruling not the underworld but instead their dark secret. Her thumb brushed against his, it was hard to imagine him without blood on his hands. She forgave him for it, she wondered if he did the same for her.