Namaarie

Namaarie

He was going to open his eyes, any moment now that deep navy was going to erupt into the darkness of the alley; he was going to open his eyes. That damp film of filth that coated the polluted brick and disgusting pavement seemed to pulse with the fervor of panic that only she emitted into the night. Fingertips pressed with that white knuckle pressure at his chest, pale orbs pleading with him to return.

He was going to be fine, just fine...! He always was...!

Soft lips were parted in desperation, hating every fiber of her being for not being able to cry out for help. Breath was a torrent of terror as it didn’t even seem to have a steady rhythm, a solid rock of unfathomable sorrow choking at her throat. All she could do was stare, her lithe body tremoring with pure fear as the Draculina lay there unmoving.

What could she do...There must be something, there was always something that could be done...! Someone or something that could bring him back!

Her delicate visage was ravaged by unspeakable dread and misery; ivory tresses snapping through the air with the force in which she whipped her head about in search of some form of help. A passerby, a policeman on the graveyard shift, a drifter, anyone...At all...

But there was no one.

And her petite body was draped atop this unmoving form; her legs splayed out on his abdomen with her torso pressing desperately at his chest. Delicate hands quaked softly as she reached up for gaunt and sallow cheekbones, only nimble fingertips able to make any contact---Cold. A chill that was never there before. Certainly he had never been all to warm to the touch to begin with, a keep of the Dark Gift but...There had always been a light. The faintest warmth.

Tears singed at her pale orbs like hot coals, crystalline rivers dripping down to pool onto his cheeks, his eyelids, his sharp nose...They fell without forgiveness; the force of such agony quaking her body without mercy with each mute sob. Snowy locks seemed to glow in the alley amidst her horrible lament, dirtied by the scum and grime that cast its film on the passage. Pallid sight still flitted here and there in desperation, catching sight of something...

His cane was only millimeters out of his grip; sitting in a stagnant puddle of unknown waters where his fingertips almost tred.

All the emotion swirling violently inside of her seemed to surge to a boiling point then, her cheeks and nose, even her brow, scrunched up in a horrible way that signified her total defeat. Her normally gentile visage contorted into a look of pure agony. She fully slumped onto him then, grasping at ginger locks as she buried her face desperately into the crook of his neck.

“Wh.....Wah-Walker...!” It was half screamed, but all in all mostly sobbed wretchedly.

Isil was lost. Alone. Forever...apart.