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Prompt #1: Scars/Bruises
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Ephemeral
By AbsentAngel
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She wears the bruises around her neck like jewelry – a necklace that she can't remove, made of blemished stones of varying shades of purple and ringed with sickly green. They peek through the layers of concealer she cakes over them, bleeding through like stubborn stains, despite her best efforts. It doesn't take much to connect the dots and find the image of hands.
Natsu is torn between not being able to look at them and not being able look away.
When his eyes close he sees the hand of their enemy enclose around her throat, hears her wheezing gasps as she claws at his skin, and feels her terror rimmed eyes tearing into his soul. At night it replays over and over – a broken film reel stuck on repeat. In his dreams he can't move, can't scream. He is the unwilling audience strapped down and gagged with his eyes taped open, just waiting (begging) for the morning sun to rise and loosen his bindings. In reality, he just wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough.
Wasn't smart enough.
He is haunted by the knowledge that a few moments later would have meant a few moments too late. It is a painful reminder – one that forces him to realize that, even with her new found strength, she is still far too fragile. Her magic does not save her from bruises, does not protect her from bleeding. The soft skin that he has always admired is no more than softened paper, and he knows it is not enough to keep her safe. Just one wrong move – one solid blow to her stomach, one piercing stab to her heart, one slice to any of the dozen major arteries giving her life – and she is gone.
There are too many ways to lose her and not nearly enough to keep her safe.
He thinks of how the blood of her future self – her blood, only not – spilled hotly over his hands. He remembers with frightening clarity the way it stuck to his skin, embedded itself beneath his fingernails, in a way that only time could wash away. Sometimes, if he thinks about it for too long, he can still catch its bitter scent and it chokes him. Even in the face of her warm smiles he still can't shake off the shadowed memory of how the life was stolen from her eyes.
In the face of those bruises he begins to question whether they ever really changed the future, or if they've only managed to change the circumstances. He hopes for the first, but he is terrified of the possibility of the second.
When Igneel died, a blackened seed was planted in the lonely crevices of his heart. It grows with every bruise, every cut, every close call – festers like a rotten wound that never had the chance to heal. He feels it planting its bitter, ashen roots around him; hears it hiss omens so dark that it burns his ears. Every injury that Lucy sustains is another barbed vine wrapping around his heart, smothering his pulse and making him weak.
It is only a matter of time before they constrict – and he suffocates under the pressure.
Ephemeral: adjective
a very short time; short-lived; transitory
AN: Something small to kick off Angst Week. :)