How do I get so much work done so fast? (Hint: I was sick yesterday and off of school. Still feeling ill, but never mind that.) I'm already into Chapter 5 of Project: Hope, which is a good place to be. Things are getting set up, people are entering conflicts, Natasha just learned that her abusive father's been dead for the past five years-
Wait. Did I just let that slip?
Since I figured this next piece of text wasn't too plot-intensive nor so wordy, I thought I'd put it up and see what people thought. Sharing is caring, after all! All you need to know for this next piece is that after learning that her father had been dead for so long, Natasha basically tried very hard not to completely melt down . . . only to cry in L'Fae's arms. Typical.
As of right now, the excerpt that comes before this - when Natasha totally loses it - is up on my novel profile. Feel free to check it out or read it before this, although I can't promise how long it'll stay up. Check it out quick, guys!
All of that being said: feel free to go "aww" as much as you like, because it's a little bit sappy.
***
They’d woken everybody - L’Fae knew that, although she was so thankful that nobody walked out and asked them what happened, especially for Natasha’s sake. She knew, too, that everybody would know what happened by morning. Any chance of Natasha’s grief being quiet, then, was utterly ruined.
L’Fae thought of it as she laid in her bed as the morning rose, holding onto Natasha’s sleeping form. It’d felt like they’d stayed in the hall for ages, neither of them really able to remember how much time had passed. It almost felt like a dream; yet, L’Fae knew it wasn’t that, either. Though she couldn’t remember when Natasha composed herself enough to walk to the bed with her, when they fell into the covers together despite the tangles of blankets and limbs and wings, when Natasha fell into an unsettling sleep in her arms. All she remembered was the fact that even as the morning light began to rise through the narrow vents in the ground above them, she didn’t sleep a wink. Whether it was because of the nightmare or the shock from before, she wasn’t sure.
She didn’t even know what the difference was between them.
War, anarchy, and now this, she thought sadly as she closed her eyes, another fruitless attempt at sleep. It felt, again, like it was all happening too fast. Had things really been so simple before, that all she felt she had to do to make things better was run away from home with hardly a tearful goodbye? Join the group of troublemakers that turned out to be composed of half-saints? Yet now they were locked in a stalemate, her best friend saved from the hairbreadth of death and her lover grieved with the memories and knowledge of a father passed. It felt like it had all happened so fast. In reality, it had happened within a few months. Hardly significant time for proper events to unfold.
L’Fae sighed, opened her eyes again. She immediately saw her face - Natasha’s closed eyes, face streaked with tears as her umber hair splayed over the pillows like waterfalls. L’Fae found herself smiling, even if ever-so-slightly, and raised a hand to cup Natasha’s cheek. I’m . . . No good with logic like this, she found herself thinking of as she wiped at a stray tear beneath her lover’s cheek. I rant too much, rave without meaning to, and I can’t compose my thoughts unless I have pen and paper or something else that doesn’t have to be spoken word - and even then, I can hardly do that. She shut her eyes again and tried to slow her thoughts. Despite the lack of sleep in her veins, and regardless of the way her dreams pulled at her, she couldn’t find it in her to smother her thoughts. Not so soon.
But when she opened her eyes, she saw blue staring back at her - blue, matched with a small frown from soft pink lips. L’Fae froze, still cupping her face; all Natasha did, though, was close her eyes again and shift, ever-so-slightly, to nuzzle L’Fae’s palm.
The words: “I didn’t dream last night . . . Did I?”
L’Fae couldn’t bring herself to answer. She just shut her eyes.
I’m no good at explaining anyway . . .
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