That's the second time I've uploaded the rough draft of a story instead of the final. Always so embarrassing...but yes, here is the real one.
I suppose this can be considered a prequel of Sorts to my Punished Savior/Ripped Apart one-shot, but I don't consider it to be. It is simply a similar idea, something that could potentially happen in the same universe.
Although this only features Stella and Miles, this actually was written as an exploration of Helga Pataki's characterization. Tell me if you understand why. I hope to one day expand on that theme, but we will see.
Anyway, this piece took a damn long time to get right. It's actually been cut down from about five pages of pointless dialogue and meaningless metaphors. I had the first version finished the first day, looked at it and said, "there is no way this is going on the internet." So I worked on it some more and this came out.
Word Prompt is: Fiery Eyes, Fragile Heart.
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The air above the roaring waterfall is still thick with the scent of aircraft fuel, and the creatures of the forest are still silenced by the memory of the engine's roar. Two figures, silhouetted by the red of the setting sun, sit silently on the wing of the plane, contemplating the expanse of jungle laid out before them.
One stirs ever so slightly, readjusting her posture. From her fingers she dangles a pendant before her eyes. It is small, beautiful, shaped like a half-lidded eye. Imbedded within the center, an emerald pupil smolders calmly.
The waterfall continues to break itself below them, and the insect sounds of the rainforest begin to emerge.
"Do you think they'd do the same for us?"
The man starts at the sound of his wife's voice, and he turns his head to regard her. He cannot read her; the sun is almost down, and it is dark.
"No," he admits quietly, "I don't."
The woman curls into herself, drawing her knees to her chin. Thunder murmurs in the distance, and far across the sky, a single cloud flickers with light and then is dark.
They both know what is on the other's mind. Far away, over mountains and pavement, is an infant in a cradle, crying for them to come home. With every step they take away from him, the harder his pull becomes on their hearts. But somehow, both of them remain with their eyes fixed forward and their son at their backs.
"We can't just leave them to die," he says.
"No," she admits quietly, "We can't."
Perhaps, the woman realizes, this is why they do not allow us to look upon El Corazon. They do not want us to see it, for we would see that it is fragile. And that which is fragile can be broken, and that which can be broken can be used.
Again she lifts the pendant to her face, and in the darkness of the coming night, she meets its burning gaze. It flickers. It glows. It sees.
Her heart is bare.
"They've reeled us in," she whispers.