-forevermore
loading
SWC daily #29
march 29th
prologue
leila finds him first. she crouches over him, two slender fingers delicately checking his pulse. in the daze of confusion, it seems as if some angel is standing above him. she has taken him in, nurses him with bowls of broth that he sips reverently. food had been scarce, he wasn’t about to refuse it.
the days began to blur into each other, and he and leila fell into a steady rhythm. she sat, sewing and singing under her breath whilst he healed from the wounds inflicted upon him. the colourful fabrics of tulle, satin sometimes swish across his face as leila gathers her materials. he closes his eyes, and it is almost as if he’s back in Pellion some days. leila’s voice carries a melody well, singing the same songs his mother used to sing, in a nightingale’s voice.
“why are you here?”
“i don’t know.”
***
leila’s exotic skin is illuminated by the soft glow of sunlight. she is turning over ruby apples in the palms her small hands. a few loose tendrils hang about the side of her face, obscuring her eyes. tawny, with a hint of darkness.
no. no, he cannot do this. this isn’t what he’s here for.
the church from the outside looks surpringly crowded, strange for a normal friday morning. on closer inspection, everyone is attired in suits or dresses. there must be a wedding.
he idly wanders closer, who could the happy couple be? people from his village, of course, no one came to a quaint old town like this to get married unless they lived there. maybe he went to school with them. maybe he’d been friends with the girl or fought with the boy. maybe it is spanish vivanne getting wed to shy louis.
the groom lifts the bride up amidst raucous cheers of their surrounding friends and family. he catches sight of both their faces.
it is her. it is her.
mon dieu, he thinks.
he inhales sharply, the aching in him unravelling and twisting itself around his body.
the bride, as always, looks like an ethereal creature. her soft figure accentuates the wedding dress, a slender faerie clothed in white. her auburn hair is crowned atop her head, with a wreath of cream roses.
the picture of happiness, a laugh of silver. she turns her head to the side, and one split second, he swears their eyes meet.
mon dieu,he whispers.
he staggers away from the scene, only to collide with leila.
***
when he wakes, he is twitching on the sofa. restless and feverish, leila places a cool cloth on his forehead.
he is so grateful for leila. she took a complete stranger into her home, tried to nurse him back to life.
but what is broken will not be the same, even after it is fixed.
he cannot break her too.
it is why he clutches at her hand as she turns to leave. her eyes widen in surprise.
“merci.”
he wishes the word was bigger, more expansive. such a little word for the gratitude he feels.
leila’s eyes betray her, and she squeezes his hand gently.
it is why he leaves, early that morning, when the world is still cloaked in darkness.
ah, these wrung out goodbyes.
souvent, cela se retourne contre nous.
+548 words
march 29th
prologue
this is for an old story. leila in the actual story knows mc through some unexplained circumstance. mc is a wanderer, always travelling, never settling down. fate pulls them together again one day, after “the bride” mysteriously disappears.
leila finds him first. she crouches over him, two slender fingers delicately checking his pulse. in the daze of confusion, it seems as if some angel is standing above him. she has taken him in, nurses him with bowls of broth that he sips reverently. food had been scarce, he wasn’t about to refuse it.
the days began to blur into each other, and he and leila fell into a steady rhythm. she sat, sewing and singing under her breath whilst he healed from the wounds inflicted upon him. the colourful fabrics of tulle, satin sometimes swish across his face as leila gathers her materials. he closes his eyes, and it is almost as if he’s back in Pellion some days. leila’s voice carries a melody well, singing the same songs his mother used to sing, in a nightingale’s voice.
“why are you here?”
“i don’t know.”
***
leila’s exotic skin is illuminated by the soft glow of sunlight. she is turning over ruby apples in the palms her small hands. a few loose tendrils hang about the side of her face, obscuring her eyes. tawny, with a hint of darkness.
no. no, he cannot do this. this isn’t what he’s here for.
the church from the outside looks surpringly crowded, strange for a normal friday morning. on closer inspection, everyone is attired in suits or dresses. there must be a wedding.
he idly wanders closer, who could the happy couple be? people from his village, of course, no one came to a quaint old town like this to get married unless they lived there. maybe he went to school with them. maybe he’d been friends with the girl or fought with the boy. maybe it is spanish vivanne getting wed to shy louis.
the groom lifts the bride up amidst raucous cheers of their surrounding friends and family. he catches sight of both their faces.
it is her. it is her.
mon dieu, he thinks.
he inhales sharply, the aching in him unravelling and twisting itself around his body.
the bride, as always, looks like an ethereal creature. her soft figure accentuates the wedding dress, a slender faerie clothed in white. her auburn hair is crowned atop her head, with a wreath of cream roses.
the picture of happiness, a laugh of silver. she turns her head to the side, and one split second, he swears their eyes meet.
mon dieu,he whispers.
he staggers away from the scene, only to collide with leila.
***
when he wakes, he is twitching on the sofa. restless and feverish, leila places a cool cloth on his forehead.
he is so grateful for leila. she took a complete stranger into her home, tried to nurse him back to life.
but what is broken will not be the same, even after it is fixed.
he cannot break her too.
it is why he clutches at her hand as she turns to leave. her eyes widen in surprise.
“merci.”
he wishes the word was bigger, more expansive. such a little word for the gratitude he feels.
leila’s eyes betray her, and she squeezes his hand gently.
it is why he leaves, early that morning, when the world is still cloaked in darkness.
ah, these wrung out goodbyes.
souvent, cela se retourne contre nous.
merci means - thank you,
mon dieu means - my God,
souvent, cela se retourne contre nous means - often, they come back to haunt us
+548 words