BEWILDERMENT ETCHED IN A VIOLET GAZE. mere moments, seconds almost too late -- time counting against him ; his head turned. arms crossed. posture straightened and stiff, conscious and on guard even in solitude and sanctuary ( that which feels temporary, that which he won’t say ) but distracted by nonexistent dangers. is it imaginative or a faraway thought when he thinks of echoing thunders, of rumbling ominous storms above his head somewhere in this compound. or is he truly hearing things? he happens to turn when the bone chilling gasp escapes her, as though an otherworldly force snatched her breath. and she’s halfway to the floor as he, instinctively but rather clumsily, dives after to break the fall.
❛ mia? ❜ a rather unorthodox nickname that had yet to gain her approval. it’s better than swears or panicking when his hands fumble, shaking ever so lightly. not dead not dead but what ---- ? he should be screaming for a med droid, he should be screaming. yet his voice is constraint, limited to only her hearing. if she is still listening, that is. his voice, utterly lost and rather childish sounding makes a hapless plea -- practically the first words that come to mind, stumbling about. ❛ mia? mia ... mia. wake up. wake up. please. ❜
┊ ˚˖↷ @firstchosen
