Author's Note: More FranticShipping. Also based on a picture, but I don't think the reference is that necessary. It turned into its own thing, anyway... enjoy.
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Ink well runs dry
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By the time the ink well runs dry and there's nothing left to say, he is on the ground, knees pressed to face, hands pressed together. The prayer he says is a silent one, calling out for some kind of comfort.
He never figured that the ink of history would be his blood and tears. He never figured that her warmth would be the only one left.
He's such a fool. A fool for beauty, a fool for love. A fool for ever thinking that his strength would be enough.
He wants to run, go somewhere he can't remember. Go back to Goldenrod, or flee somewhere secret. Somewhere untouched by his stupidity, somewhere… somewhere free from guilt. Free from the writing on the wall.
It is a hand that holds him down, keeps him from bolting right then and there. Two arms, soft and strong, draped around his shoulders. Soft whispers, the feel of her breath on his ear. She is fire, fire and earth. She stands and stays, where he turns and flees. Wind and water, going with the flow. He doesn't know if he can resist the current's pull.
But amid the madness, she is his shelter. She is his rock. And in the chaos, she makes him whole.