Alright. Here we go again. I figured it would be fun to focus on a different point of view. Why not Arelia? I know it's shorter segments and, therefor, less flow-y. I apologize for that.
Special thanks to my Beta, Lyrics Amidala.
Disclaimer: not mine
He was everything she had hoped for. He was handsome. He was wealthy. He spoke with subdued passion. He stood tall and had an air of mystery about him. He stared too long. He touched too much and for too long. He stood too close. He was the exact opposite of every moral her mother had attempted to instill in her. And she adored him for it.
Maybe that's why she agreed to run away with him.
Different. She supposed that's how she would describe their relationship. She had wanted to travel the world with him, not be chained to Ravenwood Manor. However, it was fine, she supposed. They were further from courting, which was what it felt like, but not married. It concerned her some. Silas drank more.
The light faded from him. He came home late. She understood this from the boys she knew back home, in memories illuminated with fireflies and dimmed moonlight distilled in Spanish moss. He wasn't in his right mind. That was it.
Pressure. She blamed the pressure of the Ravenwood name, pushing him to new extremes and forcing work for a tireless man. How Abraham had lured her-not husband, but partner-into such a trap was beyond her.
He kissed her and tasted of bourbon. His warm hands trailed over her skin, as though to memorize her. Warm. Oh, it was better than his cool palms, so much. The black eyes had her shocked, caught between fight and flight, between rally and despair. She wanted the yellowing orange back, the fire-hearted color that excited her to begin with. However, he was still Silas. She saw it in the stint of his lips and experienced it when he spoke, albeit slightly slurred. Doubtless, she surrendered.
His hands lingered on her abdomen.
She had hoped for a forest. Wished for a green to rival the trees. He had eyes of fire. Beautiful, blazing, and gentle. He was light in her arms, no more than eight pounds, she guessed. His skin was pale, cold-oh, the cold!-and he seemed frail in her embrace. Thankfully, his eyes were closed. The illusion was almost complete. She supposed he was alive, in the end. Not of desperate hearts and flush, but of confidence and breath. Breathing without a heartbeat. Her little boy. He would know the scorch of emotion soon enough.
She held him closer.
The fire that started, if it could be called that, was small. Barely a spark. Not nearly enough to warm a heart or soothe a chill. It caught on his wringing hands and nested in his eyes. His bright smile ignited her fluttering heart. His quiet voice raged in her ears. He cozied her lonely soul and comforted her restless mind.
For a moment, she melted.
This spark was fanned, of course. With bruising glares, biting hits and increasingly frequent drunken nights, the passion caught. It rushed beneath the skin, pooling in the blooming discolorations and rosy welts. The changes were immediate and obvious. He spoke quietly. She stepped back. He ate less. She worried her blouse, twisted in her hands. He smiled more. She pulled a mask.
Another pair of feet pattered against the floor.
His energy slowed. His interest declined. The fire that had been her ambition cooled, tepid instead of scalding. His eyes gained a flatness. His hands shook. He spoke distantly, as though life would carry on, leaving him behind. He played the violin for her somedays, to entertain her restless mind. He grinned and reassured her problems. Everything's fine, Mamma. She returned the smile hesitantly.
Something broke inside her.
It danced over his retreating fingers as he practiced his violin. It darted to pool in the bruises he attempted to hide and flitted across his lips. His eyes were warmer, more critical. They scanned the rooms cautiously. His voice was still calm. He was still her little boy. Together, she supposed they'd burn down Ravenwood, the two of them. Refugees of the same man. Burned by his touch and wounded by his presence.
She found ways to smile, though, just as he did. It wasn't hard. She had two sons. Good names. Good boys. A large house. An infamous name. However, as she watched the abuse wear on her little boy, she wondered.
She feared for what this fire devoured.
Run. She had to leave, had to run. Not now. The pregnancy was only near three months, but this one was different. She didn't dare utter it to Silas, no longer her Silas, but Ravenwood's Silas.
She mentioned it to Macon, her little boy, when it furthered, and he inquired. He was too young to remember anything from the previous. She allowed him to lift her shirt enough to see the bulge, when Silas slept. And when the babe kicked, she called him over.
There was a fire in his eyes again, lighting his expression. His hands were hesitant. His mouth was tight. His touch was a whisper. But she saw when he felt it. His eyes widened. His breath was blown out in a sharp sigh. His shoulders relaxed.
She froze.
She fled. The call she made was barely kept together. Her voice remained calm as the rest of her fractured. The money scalded her palm. The babe-Leah, her name's Leah-was quiet, with the same eyes she had seen in Macon. This was clumsy. This was steady.
Part of her wondered if Silas was going to come for them.
Leah cooed in her arms. No, she concluded. He wanted his sons. She wouldn't deny the relief she felt at that. She kept that dear to her heart. He didn't want them. Not her. Not Leah. She saved what she could have.
She bounced her foot to keep time.
Years passed. She faked so much. That's not to say Leah was disenchanting, quite the opposite, actually. Leah grew and matured without problems, much to her joy. However, she came to the realization of her departure. It was all but a bad dream, now. Yet, she wondered on the dark nights that came so often these days, and imagined the smile of her boy. She pictured how the fire had bit at his innocence. She let her fingers tap against the weight burning harshly against his back, willing the whim to reality. Her feeling, the feeling she associated with Silas, had faded from her shoulders to a pleasant warmth instead of a blistering heat.
She hoped the same for her boy.
Home. Burning. It lapped at her skin, surged uncomfortably inside her. Her boy, her Macon, was there, not a scant five yards away. His eyes were troublesome, frantic and needed. His shoulders carried the same burden she remembered. She was sure, if she looked hard enough, the carefully placed alterations would fade to bruises, blooming on his pale skin. Tightness started in her chest. She beckoned him closer. Apprehension stifled. He held her hand between his palms, still steady, a shock of cold. He spoke softly, but she knew the trapped undertone too well.
They settled in the kitchen. She handed over a prison, a weighty ball and chain that fit nestled in her fingers. He grinned, desperate. She asked how it was. They both knew the intention. Dark circles clung beneath his bright eyes. She remembered how Silas was, almost too keenly. She felt herself nearing a precipice, plummeting depending on his answer.
His reply was quiet, firm. Everything's fine, Mamma. She worried her mind, now, not fabric. He squared his shoulders, now, not allowing them to drop even a degree.
This time, she allowed herself to fall.
Wrong. Everything about this meeting was the epitome of it. She wanted to leave, to flee again, under his gaze. Black, unnaturally dark, and tedious, it clutched at her breath. To be fair, he seemed only tired, as though he had already blazed through life and only existed as a memory, barely tangible. Black as coal, specks of ash starting in at his temple. He was burning from the inside. She couldn't stifle this one, but she had known that for quite a while now, she suspected.
His voice was smooth, refined. A fine façade, even he had trouble remembering the quiet boy exuding murmurs. He spoke of a curse she hadn't thoroughly recalled, only heard through rumor, the Duchannes. How it pertained to her, she had no idea. Unless Silas had taken a young bride from that line...but he wasn't so dim in his age. It was slaughter to do something as risky as that. But no, her...Macon's half-sister's daughter, his niece, had a choice. All Dark. All Light. Forests and fires, she wondered what she would choose, if she could.
He theorized he could, in an inverse reaction, end this tirade without the suspected fatality. Someone she loved. She tensed. Someone who would have died, anyway. Her heart hammered. No. No, this was wrong. She nodded as though she knew what she had approved. His smile was small, the flash of a knife. She fought the urge to run.
He held her to him, warm touches to a silent heart. Thank you for coming, Mamma.
Pressure. It felt like she was fading. He was ashes now. Gone. Traveling the world the way she had only wished to, when she was a young woman. Her bones ached. Her heart heaved. Tears bit the back of her eyes. He wasn't...he couldn't...but she had seen him there, cold on the ground, soaked by impossible rain. It had worked. His inane, half-crazed hypothesis had been correct. Oh, she couldn't deny his ingenuity. Nor his stupidity. It infuriated her to an extent.
He had been so passioned, so heated, and she had wanted to run again, to feel the air rushing around her. Did that make her a murderer? And where had her little boy hid off to now? No, that was wrong. And she felt it again, the same maddening drumbeat of that undying fire, flared on her raw soul. She breathed a prayer. Lord help me.
She knew, now, what these flames cost.