* 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 / 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐍.

SHE WAS AN ANGEL, BEAUTIFUL AND GRACEFUL IN EVERY ASPECT. it was no wonder how easily the converted had fallen in line, especially when she was there with that soft smile, welcoming those who chose salvation with open arms. marisol struggles with it. that need for a sense of belonging. but the reality of the situation shakes her fixation away. her daughter was out there somewhere, hopefully still alive, and eden's gate was getting in the way.

marisol had fought valiantly against the allure and promises of love. she had muted the hymns faith had written, blocking out any attempts at appealing to her more human side. instead, she opted to line up a bunch of explosives to the road and detonated it when supply trucks traveled through. anything to cull their resources, anything to give her a headstart.

she  is  a  walking  abomination.  can  those  with  such  hatred  in  their  heart  truly  be  saved?  those  who  forsake  the  will  of  the  father,  the  reality  of  the  cruelty  that  awaits  either  fate?  faith's  voice  grows  louder  than  that  of  joseph,  trembling  against  the  walls  of  containment  in  her  own  mind.  he’s  going  to  punish  her  for  this  -  why  can’t  the  deputy  see  the  chain  reaction  she’s  just  set  off?  marisol's  defiance  enrages  her  -  gut  instinct  impresses  upon  her  to  hurt  the  woman  before  her  -  learned  reaction  tells  her  to  wait.

"he's  going  to  protect  us,"    there's  manic  devotion  in  that  statement  -  perhaps  if  faith  says  it  enough,  the  deputy  will  believe  her.  (perhaps  faith,  herself,  will  believe  it,  too.)  the  angel's  hands  find  marisol's  arms  with  a  vitriol-fueled  force  -  begging  her  to  see  the  light.  the  point  of  what  they're  doing:  protect  those  who  cannot  protect  themselves.  something  slated  directly  between  fear  and  manipulation  stands  at  the  forefront  of  her  allegiances.

the fibers of the frayed blanket catch against his fingertips as he smooths placidly over the fabric. eventually, there will be nothing more to endure other than the final death rattle before the hotly anticipated fall of civilization; according to the father. his beloved younger brother.

what they have is genuine, isn't it? it's a fragile thought. one that might crack at the surface should one choose the wrong tool to chip at it with. she had played the dedicated role of a means to an end beautifully, still does; aiding in the making of what would become his legacy after his planned departure.

he would leave, she would lead, and that would be the end of things. but if she won't do it, someone else will, and so he's made sure of it. his plans are a decade in the making, most of them seen to fruition.

"this. right here, right now," jacob rasps in the dark quiet of the room they inhabit. dingy, paint peeling, dilapidated. what part of his life other than that of eliza hasn't embodied the aforementioned? when he was shiny, new, and full of piss and vinegar ambition? why would she choose now to seek answers? what provocation has she happened upon? questions. so many goddamned questions.

immediately,  almost  immediately  -  in  the  very  breath  that  he  strives  to  tell  her  what  he  thinks  she  wants  to  hear,  or  worse  -  what  he  wants  to  be  true  -  eliza  sits  up  straight,  the  curvature  of  her  spine  facing  away  from  him.  the  breath  in  her  chest  feels  ice  cold  -  the  air  shared  between  them  chills  at  her  fingertips;  eliza  rescinds  her  touch  to  rest  palm-down  along  her  thighs.

“don’t  lie  to  me.”  there  is  no  vindication,  no  retaliation  in  her  tone  -  the  quiet  that  eliza  holds  should  be  proof  enough  of  her  unwavering  recognition  of  jacob:  i  know  you  better  than  that.  "if  that  was  true,  i'd  be  exactly  who  you  wanted  me  t'be.  here,  in  this  mess  -  all  of  it."  but  ...  she  wants  more.  he  wants  more  -  doesn't  he?  even  if  he  can't  find  it  within  himself  to  say  it?  they're  both  believing  the  idealized  versions  of  one  another  through  their  own  eyes:  love  won't  be  enough  to  save  either  one.

shes  hurts  in  a  way  that  she  should  now  be  numb  to  -  and  in  a  way,  she  is.  numb  to  what  he’s  made  her,  and  yet  …  that  heart  remains  the  same.  it’s  what  he’s  wanted  all  along,  isn’t  it?  the  bleeding  heart,  hand  and  knife,  all  in  one.

it  hurts  to  breathe.  it  hurts  when  she  opens  the  door  to  the  life  they’d  once  shared  -  where  the  paint  on  the  walls  still  peeled,  the  blankets  frayed,  the  dogs  barked  and  the  sun  still  set  -  a  home  where  love  still  lived.  it  does  here,  too,  but  …  it’s  different.  his  answer  is  reminder  enough  of  that.  her  tongue  and  lungs  are  covered  in  the  same  smoke  that  he  tastes  of  -  he's  coated  her  in  the  black  soot  of  his  touch,  inside  and  out.

they're  nearing  the  end.  @allegored  knows  it  just  as  much  as  she  does.

he is afraid, and has been ever since he'd regained consciousness some odd months ago, surrounded by colleagues in a place unfamiliar to him. the fear and panic had long since set in after realizing his family were among the missing while the cult held the county in a vice grip. he's heard the stories of people never returning from the thick slip of the bliss's influence, never regaining their faculties, and yet here he is; cowed by desperation after having been discovered in a place where he very well shouldn't have been.

"i think—i think you know the answer to that .." rick manages intelligible speech, reaching for clarity in the mist, concentrating on returning to himself with a discernible grief; his eyes wide, rimmed with red, heart hammering. he's out of it, but it's still in him.

teeth  sink  into  her  lower  lip  as  rosy,  petaled  skin  slips  into  another  smile,  chuckling  to  herself  as  she  turns  her  back  on  him.  he's  somewhere  between  heaven  and  earth  -  rather,  it  should  feel  that  way.  rick  sees  nothing  of  the  rusted,  bunker  walls  past  the  grass  and  overgrown  blossoms  clouding  his  vision  -  a  hazy  portrait  surrounding  faith  at  the  center  of  it.  she  drags  a  wooden  chair  to  sit  in  front  of  where  he  remains,  zip-tied  to  a  seat  of  his  own.

"i  thought  a  gentleman  like  you  would  know  how  t'be  nicer  to  a  lady,"  she  coos,  settling  into  her  own  chair  mere  inches  from  his  -  bringing  her  legs  up  to  sit  criss-cross  and  moving  to  cradle  his  cheeks  in  her  palms.  cold  to  the  touch  -  bracing.  his  pupils  take  up  half  his  goddamn  eyes,  and  she  knows  that  he's  wrapped  around  her  finger  -  perfect.

"look  at  me,"  it's  more  of  a  demand  than  a  request.