The Hush Sound lyrics
But your eyes are drawn of charcoal
they're black, they're so cold, they're so imperfect.
Because they see a sleeping world,
where waking isn't worth it.
The pain and guilt don't come often to Solace LaMarck. They aren't nightly visitors, keeping her distant from her husband and children and family and friends. They aren't a morning gnawing at her bones, making her stumble out of bed and reach for a drink of something foul-tasting. They aren't a sharp stab that makes her stop whatever she's doing in the middle of the day and burst into helpless tears over what has happened and she has no power to change. In fact, they don't make her cry - she rarely, almost never does that anyway. Not because she considers it a weakness or something that would be used against her or anything of the sort. It just doesn't normally come to her.
No, the pain and guilt always come when something calls them up - a random remark in a conversation; something Stella would say or do that would make most people tear up or choke up; seeing a pair of dark-haired twins walking in the street. They don't come sharp and sudden, leaving her gasping and losing focus. But when they come, they are completely overwhelming. And completely undeniable.
Reputation is what other people know about you. Honor is what you know about yourself.
That distinction doesn't even work in her case. The people who matter do know about her guilt. About being the reason for her brother's loss. About being the reason for her baby's being stuck in a place in her own hand and not ever fully able to come out and just live.
And nobody says a word of just accusation to her. Sometimes it makes her want to shout out how it's her doing. Even if a part of her knows that if she'd known, she would have done anything to stop both of those. When the pain comes, all that she's aware of is that she should have known. And she hadn't.
She doesn't shout out. She doesn't get angry, and she doesn't get saddened. Just quiet and cold, and for most of the people, there's not so much of a difference since she is cool and detached anyway.
When she can, she doesn't spend time with most people anyway. If possible, she checks on Pollux even if he's an adult with a family of his own. If possible, she retreats to where Stella is and spends hours with her youngest daughter. Playing. Teaching. Talking. Singing her to sleep, sometimes, no matter the age. Or just watching her go about what she wants to do. Helping. Being there.
Most people isn't everyone either. Most of the times, Stephen is right there. He knows her, and knows the difference between composure and quietness. And he doesn't question after a while, learning to recognize the look, but just sits there, holds her if appropriate (watching Stella sleep, for example. She is such a beautiful young woman) until that little sigh comes and just for a few moments, she crumples against him, tucking her head against his chest into that rare vulnerability that took her years to be able to let him see.
And sometimes he's not there, or she's away from her family, those living that she has betrayed the worst.
Then she climbs - on a horse, or a bike, or a car - and sets off. Not mindlessly, not dangerously, or at least not as much so as to make it as alarming as Pollux sometimes does - less often these days, thankfully - but just to feel the velocity of the world slipping away past her. To feel the loss of it, the missing of it in a way that is almost tangible, or at least more so than just the lack of what else she needs.
But the speed was power, and the speed was joy, and the speed was pure beauty.
character: Solace de la Marck (née DuMorne)
fandom: The Dresden Files (OC)
prompt: "The Artist" lyrics
word count: 611 (minus quotes by Richard Bach and Lois McMaster Bujold)
they're black, they're so cold, they're so imperfect.
Because they see a sleeping world,
where waking isn't worth it.
The pain and guilt don't come often to Solace LaMarck. They aren't nightly visitors, keeping her distant from her husband and children and family and friends. They aren't a morning gnawing at her bones, making her stumble out of bed and reach for a drink of something foul-tasting. They aren't a sharp stab that makes her stop whatever she's doing in the middle of the day and burst into helpless tears over what has happened and she has no power to change. In fact, they don't make her cry - she rarely, almost never does that anyway. Not because she considers it a weakness or something that would be used against her or anything of the sort. It just doesn't normally come to her.
No, the pain and guilt always come when something calls them up - a random remark in a conversation; something Stella would say or do that would make most people tear up or choke up; seeing a pair of dark-haired twins walking in the street. They don't come sharp and sudden, leaving her gasping and losing focus. But when they come, they are completely overwhelming. And completely undeniable.
Reputation is what other people know about you. Honor is what you know about yourself.
That distinction doesn't even work in her case. The people who matter do know about her guilt. About being the reason for her brother's loss. About being the reason for her baby's being stuck in a place in her own hand and not ever fully able to come out and just live.
And nobody says a word of just accusation to her. Sometimes it makes her want to shout out how it's her doing. Even if a part of her knows that if she'd known, she would have done anything to stop both of those. When the pain comes, all that she's aware of is that she should have known. And she hadn't.
She doesn't shout out. She doesn't get angry, and she doesn't get saddened. Just quiet and cold, and for most of the people, there's not so much of a difference since she is cool and detached anyway.
When she can, she doesn't spend time with most people anyway. If possible, she checks on Pollux even if he's an adult with a family of his own. If possible, she retreats to where Stella is and spends hours with her youngest daughter. Playing. Teaching. Talking. Singing her to sleep, sometimes, no matter the age. Or just watching her go about what she wants to do. Helping. Being there.
Most people isn't everyone either. Most of the times, Stephen is right there. He knows her, and knows the difference between composure and quietness. And he doesn't question after a while, learning to recognize the look, but just sits there, holds her if appropriate (watching Stella sleep, for example. She is such a beautiful young woman) until that little sigh comes and just for a few moments, she crumples against him, tucking her head against his chest into that rare vulnerability that took her years to be able to let him see.
And sometimes he's not there, or she's away from her family, those living that she has betrayed the worst.
Then she climbs - on a horse, or a bike, or a car - and sets off. Not mindlessly, not dangerously, or at least not as much so as to make it as alarming as Pollux sometimes does - less often these days, thankfully - but just to feel the velocity of the world slipping away past her. To feel the loss of it, the missing of it in a way that is almost tangible, or at least more so than just the lack of what else she needs.
But the speed was power, and the speed was joy, and the speed was pure beauty.
character: Solace de la Marck (née DuMorne)
fandom: The Dresden Files (OC)
prompt: "The Artist" lyrics
word count: 611 (minus quotes by Richard Bach and Lois McMaster Bujold)