[Log] of an angry!valeria.

[leadshot]

Who: Valeria (incisive) and Balthier (leadshot)
Status: Active & Closed
Style: Third-person Prose, Possibly Alternating Tenses
Where: Izanagi Shrine, Grass Country
When: Week 3, Day 7 - *Occurring not even half an hour THIS
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Possibly language and most definitely a mentally and emotionally shaken Ground Turk

Comments

[incisive]

Were it not for the expression upon his face and the look (so detached, so empty, so... professional) about those green, green eyes of his, Valeria would think this but another cruel trick visited upon her by the gods, that this man could not possibly be Balthier because Balthier does not get close (likethisnotlikethis) and Balthier does not say things (likethatnotlikethat) with any sort of somber tone about his voice because Balthier is not serious about anything but the mission. (Your mission, or have you forgotten that, too?) He is completely professional. (They are not friends; they are partners, nothing more and nothing less, and possess a mutual, unspoken understanding that this is how it is.) He does not allow the lines to blur like her vision continues to blur in the present for the tears still pooling in her eyes.

(He is right in doing so.)

He knows and she knows(-- because nothing good can come of blurred lines, of feeling too much and thinking too little and getting too attached when everything is temporary). It is only ever temporary and they, when in their rightful places, live literally worlds apart. (And here, now, they are anything but and she thinks the lines are blurring, but she can't tell because --)

She could swing at him now, swing at him and not have to worry about missing him. She wouldn't, couldn't miss him at this distance, except that she would.

(-- you would do it on purpose and hate yourself for it.
Her vision is already blurred by free-falling tears.)

'Don't cry,' he says, as though it is the easiest thing in the world to turn the greased handle of a faucet when robbed of one's thumbs, and when he says her name, some part of her aches and --

'It doesn't --'

( It doesn't...? )

-- and she is still trembling when her breath hitches for the second time.

'It doesn't suit you.'

That is what he said in that tone with that somber expression and those deadened emerald eyes and she... she doesn't know what to make of it, of him. She is accustomed to being greeted by a bright, familiar spark when they lock eyes. (Her heart, her thoughts are racing fasterfasterfaster -- why?) She doesn't understand, can't quite grasp what he has done (one step) and why he has continued to do it (one step) for the thick veil of confusion and hurt and fear (not of him, but of something, perhaps of not knowing) hung before her eyes by the very same gods he keeps her from.

( And still it hurts and she aches and aches and aches.)

"Balthier..."