[ P ] the black dog

"Feelings of what nature?" Her only answer is a soft smile, almost wistful in its subtlety. She isn't ready yet to share those things with him—not when he is still so guarded and distant, keeping her at arms' length. Admitting her truths only to learn that he doesn't reciprocate is a pain that Drusilla doesn't want to entertain, and she's grateful when he doesn't push her to answer. She may not fear Amoux, but she does fear the way he makes her feel, and the fact that he has the power over her heart to crush it beneath his heel.

She cannot bear the thought, so she doesn't dare tell him he already owns it.

Amoux grows tense and still beside her, and Drusilla keeps her steadfast attention on the flickering torchlights below them, her ear pivoting to follow as he rises. His question may be rhetorical, but she understands its intent; he doesn't trust her with this piece of himself. But he offers an olive branch, an inkling of hope that has her head twisting over her shoulder to meet his eyes, her brows pushing together.

Time. That salve to heal all wounds. If given enough of it, would Amoux yield to her? Would he trust her with every part of him, instead of just the fragmented shards she's been clinging to with bloody palms?

She watches him go without saying a word, feeling as though they're creeping towards a precipice they can't control. That's what really gets to her—the yearning. It's a living, breathing thing that grows larger each time he leaves her wanting, and sooner or later, it will consume her.

exeunt drusilla

you should see me in a crown

code // art