She had thought that hearing him rage at her was worse, but she had been sorely mistaken. She thought what she’d wanted was for him to understand, and to embrace her. Seeing his expression blanch with understanding only seemed to create another fracture in her heart. Seeing what her words had done, and knowing that it was never what he wanted to inflict on her; she didn’t know how to fix it. She wanted to tell him it was alright, and that she would be alright, and that they would remain friends as always, but perhaps too much had been said. Too much had been burned, and this was worse: seeing him apologize for everything that wasn’t his fault.

And as if on cue, the fire behind them crackled once more, sending sparks onto the floor at the same time the thought struck her: he will not fight for you.

He will apologize, he will seek to comfort, but he will not fight.

Oh, how she hoped the voice was wrong. But she would find out right now because it was her last chance. Looking at his proffered hand, she reached out her own. Her fingers shook as she took it, gripped it tightly. Despite how she was shivering in her wet clothes, he still felt warm. But when she exhaled, she could have sworn she saw her breath collect in front of her like a cloud.

I’m sorry I didn’t see.

As if he’d uttered an counter charm, her rage started to simmer off of her like heat off a freshly hewn blade. She drew a shuddering breath. Shook her head, and swiped at her cheeks once more; another shaky breath. He couldn’t have known, and still, maybe his apologies served as a cool-balm on her self-inflicted burns. “Couldn’t be what I wanted?” The room spun, and she moved her grip from his hand to his wrist. Whether to steady herself, or to reassure herself that he was still here, she couldn't say.

She couldn’t bring herself to raise her voice any more than she had just done. “I want to be wanted, Elias.” Her voice cracked in despair; and then a dry sob because she was certain she didn’t have any tears left. “I want to be loved, I want to be the first thought in someone’s mind the minute he wakes up and I want to feel his arms wrapped so tightly around me that I feel I might burst.” Her own hands moved to take him by the upper arms as she looked desperately into his eyes, hoping to see something there that might help.

“I want to feel excited for tomorrow. I want to feel-” a white flash of fangs flickered in her mind, and she shivered. “I want to feel safe and wanted and I want to be someone’s priority. I want to feel as safe as when we stood here after Mr. Hunt’s death, and I am holding on for dear life but my God, Elias, I need you to give me something to hold onto.”

She was as close to him as she dared, her grip tight as she took another breath. It was the last thing she had. “I know you can be that. I know you, Elias.” Another shaky breath: “Is that not something you can do?”

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The following 3 users Like Irene Crawley's post:3 users Like Irene Crawley's post
   Daffodil Grimstone, Penelope Fawcett, Seneca Lestrange

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

She took his hand, and even before she said it, holding on for dear life, it had felt like a lifeline, like this was the last chance he had to tether her to something here. He gripped her hand a little tighter, because whatever his head told him, Elias still didn’t want her to go.

And perhaps the last thing he had expected was to hear a rush of hope from her still. She had been going to pick up and leave her life because of him and the hurt he’d caused, and still – still – she was here, willing to hope and willing to try.

She was all but clinging to him now, meeting his gaze and forcing him to make the choice again, face to face and eye to eye. If it had been unconscious in the workshop and all the times before, that was not enough. This time, she would have it be deliberate.

There was a tide of panic rising in him now, no less than if Irene had handed him a knife and told him to wound her with it. He didn’t know if he could – wasn’t sure he wanted to – so his hands found her face instead, thumbs drying the teartracks there and then just cupping her face there as if he could commit it to memory. But today she had a wild, hard, desperate look in her eye, not the warmth he had usually known. He remembered her drenched from the rain, her hair undone and hanging loose at her neck. He remembered smudges of paint on her nose and knots in her apron and lemon drops on her tongue. A basket on her elbow as she walked. The flower show, and a self-made wreath of lilies of the valley on her head. If he hadn’t been thinking, he could have kissed her. Instead, Elias swallowed. He could think of plenty of things to do, standing here – if he could embrace her the way she wanted, bury her in his arms – but he didn’t know what to say.

There was a sureness to Irene, a safety in her sentiment, that he couldn’t ignore. They were old friends; they fit into each other’s lives; they both felt at home in each other’s arms. And – he felt the same draw towards Daffy, but everything with her was still comparatively new. There was a raw edge there – they didn’t seem to understand each other quite as well, though they were trying – and so Elias hardly knew, in this moment, where they stood. Would she forgive the overprotectiveness or the recent distance? He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He could lose all this, and lose her too.

“Irene,” he said, in his own quiet plea. “You do deserve all of that,” he said fiercely, one of his hands dropping to the back of her neck. “You deserve all of that and more. I want you to be happy – I want you to be so happy you never feel alone again. I know you will be –” his other hand curled around her back, pulling her as near as he dared to hold her as tightly as he could. Just for a moment, just for one last time. “And I wish I could be that for you, I do. Because I love you, and I know that’s not fair to say,” he said, “but...”

His brow creased. He hated himself for it, but she knew the answer. She had known it already: she had said it in her letter. He couldn’t be what he wanted to both of them. But if hearing it from him was what she needed to move on, then – pained, Elias added – “you were right, I’m in love with Daffodil.”

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The following 4 users Like Elias Grimstone's post:4 users Like Elias Grimstone's post
   Daffodil Grimstone, Irene Crawley, Penelope Fawcett, Seneca Lestrange

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look ANOTHER beautiful bee!set <3

For the briefest of moments, when he cupped her cheeks in his hands, she’d felt just a small wash of relief. She felt safe. And so she held her breath to dip below the waves of Elias’ words. She would find a cool balm there, calm and lulling. But one look at the hurricane raging in his eyes as they changed from tortured to unsure, and then to resolute; and then back to pained, and she knew the answer. She’d been too late. As he spoke, she could feel a chasm opening up beneath her. Every syllable threatened to pull her deeper and deeper into the depths.

In the entire hurricane that had been her life, only one thing had remained constant these past years — one person. Everything went away, every trouble every worry. And yet she’d still given him the power to punch a hole through her chest, and squeeze her heart until it shattered.

And so it did. All her breath left her lungs and what followed was a sound she hadn’t ever heard before, but one that had curdled inside of her from the moment she’d seen them together at the flower show; it had grown until now, when it felt all consuming.

His hand on her waist felt like home; but his hand on the back of her neck was a noose.

I wish I could be that for you. I love you.

I’m in love with Daffodil.

Of course it was Daffodil. Fair complexioned, blue eyed, rosy cheeked, younger Daffodil. Irene had stayed too close to the sun and got burned. The florist had basked under the light and flourished. Perhaps if Irene hadn’t lost her fiancé to oblivion, lost her parents to death, lost her sleep to a curse, lost her blood to a vampire; and lost her heart again to Elias, she might have let herself fall, for this was surely the freshest and deepest wound. She let the tears fall freely onto his chest as her hands clutched at his shirt. Pine. Oak. Cedar. Varnish. All of these she might be able to think about without visions of his smile invading her dreams, but for now she let them bombard her, just so she might keep them for a little while longer.

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The following 2 users Like Irene Crawley's post:2 users Like Irene Crawley's post
   Daffodil Grimstone, Elias Grimstone

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as of 20 Dec 1893, Irene's hair is cut short above her shoulders

Elias had known it would hurt her, had braced himself for that, but it was still worse than he had imagined to watch her falling apart in front of him. But at least she had leaned into his chest, and he could fold his arms better around her, and pretend that holding her together for a little while longer here would do anything good. He couldn’t pretend to be ignorant of what he had done; her heart, and her life, were all in splinters because of him.

He tried to hold Irene against him until her breathing came in less raggedly, until it might be steadier again, tried to stroke her hair and rub her back and be safe harbour for her just one last time, before she left and didn’t look back again.

He didn’t know how long he had let the moment stretch out – longer, this time, than that time last summer – but, finally, he relaxed his grasp, reminded himself he couldn’t keep her. “I know you have to go,” he murmured, soft – he didn’t want to reignite any embers of desperation in the air – and he didn’t look at her directly, because he was sure he would never be able to walk out in good conscience if he did, but he added quietly, just in case: “But come back, if – if you can.”

It was a long shot, and too much to ask of her, when he had given her so little. But it was all he could say now, and all he could hope for.

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look ANOTHER beautiful bee!set <3