Tile: Burn
Author: Randa Beth
Disclamer: Must we go through this again? I own nothing!
A.N.: This is my introduction fic to the world of CA. It might turn into something more if I get a good response, but I am really just testing the waters:) Please let me know what you think of this, because it's sort of a new style for me and I'm a bit insecure about it.
~*~
From the shadows, he watches her burn. He is cloaked in darkness, at home with the night. In its inky pitch, he finds the solitude that he craves.
But not as much as he craves Her.
She is the definition of fire. Every movement that she makes is a burning blaze, casting gleaming light into his shadows, threatening to expose him, to bring him into the open day.
It frightens him. It excites him. And the fact that it excites him only terrifies him more, because nothing has ever excited him. The feeling is foreign, as foreign as friendship.
He wants to be her friend. He wants to be more than her friend. And that in itself is confusing, as he is as unclear on the concept of friendship as he is on how to achieve it.
He was close, once. The fear of losing her light was enough to outweigh the fear of exposing himself to her inevitable disgust and hatred, and he was able to protect her, to guard her from the threatening storm that would surely have extinguished her precious flame. When he caught her up in his arms, when he met her burning lips with his, he was amazed that he didn't catch fire.
Instead, he melted.
The ice that surrounded him, that held him in its protective prison, began to thaw and crack, starting at his lips, spreading the exquisitly painful feeling to his heart, and then, amazingly, to his vocal cords.
He wanted to speak for her. He wanted to please her. And he was, he could tell that he was. Her ocean-colored eyes were gleaming with joy and encouragement as he fought for her, fought to defeat the barrier that had kept him silent for all of those years, so many years. And he was winning, had almost won, when his sword-his own sword-pierced his chest and he was falling, falling away from her, falling back into the suffocating coldness.
Compared to her, Hell would be figid.
It was a miracle that kept him from death. He stayed for her, to protect and guard her from all danger. To hunger for her, but never give in to that hunger, never shadow her light with his darkness. Never allow anything to shadow her light. She kept him alive, she was the miracle.
So now he follows her, he watches over her, he watches her. His home is wherever she may be. His bed is the ground beneath her window. She is all that he knows, all that he wants to know. She is fire, and she burns him daily.
He welcomes the flame.
Author: Randa Beth
Disclamer: Must we go through this again? I own nothing!
A.N.: This is my introduction fic to the world of CA. It might turn into something more if I get a good response, but I am really just testing the waters:) Please let me know what you think of this, because it's sort of a new style for me and I'm a bit insecure about it.
~*~
From the shadows, he watches her burn. He is cloaked in darkness, at home with the night. In its inky pitch, he finds the solitude that he craves.
But not as much as he craves Her.
She is the definition of fire. Every movement that she makes is a burning blaze, casting gleaming light into his shadows, threatening to expose him, to bring him into the open day.
It frightens him. It excites him. And the fact that it excites him only terrifies him more, because nothing has ever excited him. The feeling is foreign, as foreign as friendship.
He wants to be her friend. He wants to be more than her friend. And that in itself is confusing, as he is as unclear on the concept of friendship as he is on how to achieve it.
He was close, once. The fear of losing her light was enough to outweigh the fear of exposing himself to her inevitable disgust and hatred, and he was able to protect her, to guard her from the threatening storm that would surely have extinguished her precious flame. When he caught her up in his arms, when he met her burning lips with his, he was amazed that he didn't catch fire.
Instead, he melted.
The ice that surrounded him, that held him in its protective prison, began to thaw and crack, starting at his lips, spreading the exquisitly painful feeling to his heart, and then, amazingly, to his vocal cords.
He wanted to speak for her. He wanted to please her. And he was, he could tell that he was. Her ocean-colored eyes were gleaming with joy and encouragement as he fought for her, fought to defeat the barrier that had kept him silent for all of those years, so many years. And he was winning, had almost won, when his sword-his own sword-pierced his chest and he was falling, falling away from her, falling back into the suffocating coldness.
Compared to her, Hell would be figid.
It was a miracle that kept him from death. He stayed for her, to protect and guard her from all danger. To hunger for her, but never give in to that hunger, never shadow her light with his darkness. Never allow anything to shadow her light. She kept him alive, she was the miracle.
So now he follows her, he watches over her, he watches her. His home is wherever she may be. His bed is the ground beneath her window. She is all that he knows, all that he wants to know. She is fire, and she burns him daily.
He welcomes the flame.