Apollumi
Despair, therefore and, die. Be cheerful; for the wronged souls
o' butcher'd princes fight on thy behalf.
One.
Good and evil. There were so many reasons for the two to be opposite. They were born, with different families and different heritages and different beliefs. There was no one that told them otherwise, after all. Together, they could not survive. The moon and sun could not co-exist. It was a legend that had been passed down from many a generations. If the golden flame were to touch the gentle wave, chaos would be brought down upon the earth.
They were not supposed to be together.
He was the beast, locked away in a tower of hatred and fear and propaganda. She was the princess, forever beautiful and forever gazing out her window with a troubled soul, waiting for her prince to rescue her. In terms of fairytales, a love such as that would be forbidden.
They were not supposed to be together.
Fate had etched it into skin and bone, the words and intricate design of their chosen paths. But, alas, the paths had been chosen for them, had been drawn from a sliver of moonlight that allowed no interferences. Fate had picked out their lives.
Destiny had whispered to them in their sleep. Gave them dreams of hope and love and happily ever after. He dreamt of clouds and rivers and mountains too tall for him to climb. She dreamt of alabaster white and a great journey tied in with a love greater than she could imagine. He dreamt of a thirst that could not be quenched and an ocean that he yearned to discover. Destiny had cruelly shown them what was meant to be.
Fate stole it away.
Two.
When he first saw her, really saw her. She was huddled into a corner of a green lit cave, her face burrowed in her knees and her body wracked with sobs. Her long, long braid had tumbled down her back, lying comfortably on a worn, blue dress. He could see the blue of her necklace peeking out from behind her mocha colored hands.
'That's something we have in common.'
How could this girl, so full of life and spite and everything that stood against him, fascinate him so? She had looked up, her blueblueblue eyes shining and wet and he had to restrain himself from reaching out to gently slide a thumb under her eye. Her bottom lip quivered and, almost as if on their own accord, his legs had straightened and he was standing, tall and intimidating above her fractured soul. She, too, stood. Her dress wrinkled from sitting and he marveled at how she didn't even bother to smooth them out.
Then the warmth of her hand (somehow, he had expected it to be cool, like her element) was gently resting on his face. She was so close he could feel her breath on his lips and count every one of her eyelashes.
Maybe they weren't so different.
He tried to imagine a fiery red comet making its way across her cheek and her temple, crumbling her ear and burning away her dark brown trenches. He tried to imagine her with a golden flame resting in a topknot on top of her head, her chin held high and eyes unwavering. He tried to imagine her crumpled on the floor and crying for her father to stop, stop, stop. Suffering shall be your teacher.
He tried to imagine them as tui and la. As polar opposites, guiding their way through and around each other; close, but never touching. And he found that he couldn't.
Because they were the same. The exact same.
And when her small thumb landed on his pink lips, he knew. When a crash echoed throughout the catacombs and she was swept up in a different kind of prince's arms, he knew. And as he watched her walk away, her petite form disappearing into the darkness of the cave, he understood.
She could've healed him, but he wasn't ready.
Three.
The fire comes to life.
The orange flames roar in her mind and so she tries to calm them with a deep inhalation and a quick run of slender fingers through her wavy, out-of-control mane. Her shoulders quake from the suppressed emotion and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. In. out. In. out. The fire blazes inside of her–one wrong move and they'll all go down in flames.
'I thought you had changed!'
'That's something we have in common.'
'It can't be healed…'
She startles herself with a shuddering intake of breath and all that's left are a few glowing embers.
And every single breath was a prayer to God for help.
The fire rages, untamed, inside of her and she's so, so scared because for the first time in a long time, she feels truly alone. There's no one around to douse the flames. Her savior is dead–no one's going to save her. She retraces the memories, hoping that with faith and consistency, he'll someday be brought back into her life. But she's not sure who she means by 'he'.
She's lost too much and hurt too much.
By now, she thinks, I should be invincible.
She half-expects warm fingers to cradle her chin or soft puffs of air to warm her cheek. Any second now, her heart will beat in synch with his, every inhale and exhale crashing like waves against the sand. But wholeness is nothing but a distant memory, a fairytale and she's too old to believe in fairytales.
She's a matched set that's lost its pair.
She's a ticking time bomb barely incased in skin, waiting for the right-wrong moment to explode. Her knight in shining armor finally came to save her, but it was a trick and the clock struck twelve. No more tender hand squeezes, just the fiery hot rage that tumbles out her lips and pours from her veins. The pressure stacks itself higher and higher.
She knows that everything will backfire. Fate will pluck off her petals and rip off her wings, twirling a thread of life around Her finger until it finally wears out and snaps. Every night has its dawn, but she doesn't think she can see the light at the end of the tunnel anymore. The weight pulls her down further and further, crushing her spine and searing her skin with razor sharp talons that won't loosen their grip.
She's used to the heat–she's been burned before.
The tears she's been holding at bay for what feels like forever finally spill over, streaking down her cheeks and dripping off her jaw. The sobs that had been so hard to control earlier don't come now. She feels like this sort of crying is almost worse. Like she's shattering instead of exploding. She thinks she loves him(?) more than she's ever loved anybody, which is mostly ridiculous but slightly true.
She's drowning in hot water and being suffocated by the very air she breathes.
Four.
Nothing can come of fire and water.
She kisses him first. Her fingers tangling in his overly shaggy hair, pulling on his locks until he gives in and lets his hothot hands roam over her small body. She's warm and he's warm and together they feel like they've been holding back oceans.
His fingers clumsily unhook her mother's necklace ("She can't, I won't–no one can know.") and his lips stumble across her darkened flesh. Her thumbs slide over the waistband of his pants and she's no longer fourteen and he feels like a boy hitting puberty all over again. Her blue eyes gaze up into his.
'But I am ready to forgive you.'
They move in a steady rhythm of passion or hatred or something so deliciously forbidden it doesn't have a name. What they have…can never be named. It's a sticky summer night filled with so many could-haves and should-haves and could've-been's she almost feels like she's drowning in them.
Grey eyes pull her to the surface. She wipes a tear from her eye, clearing her throat quietly, and answers. "I'm here for you." And then he's so close, she can feel his heart beat and the blood quietly hum through his veins. She freezes. When's the last time she's been held this way? So gently, as if she might break…
"Look at me,"
His fingers are gently resting on her jaw, butterfly kisses that make her stomach clench and send shivers down her spine. Any closer and he'll hurt her. She'll cry and cry because bloody hell, she trusts him! She trusts his midnight hair and his honey eyes–so deep they'd drown the sea.
Her eyes flutter open to take in twinkling silver orbs that crinkle when he smiles. Her heart starts to slow, though it's still jumping in her esophagus.
"…I love you," he whispers into her ear.
Nothing can come of air and water.
Five.
She stepped out of the water, earth brown locks spreading behind her like angels' wings.
She's got sand in her unruly hair, eyes red from the water, scraped knees, a crack in her laugh, and she's so beautiful that it could knock him down harder than the crashing waves.
Her voice is hypnotic, sugary and sweet–like molasses–it pulls him in and it's all he can do to not melt into the warm sand under his bare feet. She curls her finger towards herself, beckoning for him to join her in the salty ocean. But he's so scared. Scared of losing himself in the endless blue water–her endless blue eyes.
Save me. Her laughter molds into shrieks.
The siren calls to him. Delicate fingers lacing with the sea, pulling her farther away. Frantic, his arms splash and bubbles rise as he rushes to her. 'Save me' she screams, 'Aang!'. Her mocha skin is so frighteningly white. Her melodic words echoing as she fades into nothingness.
He collapses onto his knees, hands fisting in the loose sand.
She was never his to save.
Six.
And so the prince extracts himself from the story.
The princess desperately searches for an answer before it is too late.
Lastly, the beast hides himself from the world, fighting in the shadows.
No one really expected a happily ever after anyway.