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𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾'𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍. ❞
𝖗𝖊𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖞 ════════════.▪.╝
IANTHE MALLORY BLITHFIELD is a daughter of howling, flame-induced fervour. She settles for nothing less but the finest, cocooned by her pretension and thirst to prove herself, her worth, other than what the world proves her to be. Some would call it vanity, an air of arrogance, of superiority, clouding her vision like a smoke imbued by daylight and dusk but she survives. She always does. She tries her best to remain on top thinking it was a necessity rather than an intention to be given on a golden platter, a choice to convey. Her heart has become severed, slowly and menacingly, until there was nothing left to fight for but the chance of a strengthened soul. Perhaps if Destiny wasn't so cruel, and the puzzled chances of becoming whole again didn't reside on the hands of a person other than herself, she would become indomitable, armoured with rage and the quenched inference that loving once more - a feeling so foreign and vicious and harsh on the tongue - was not only found in romance nor desire. But in trust, in hope, in feral faith as friendship and compassion. It seems far-fetched, like only a subconscious of hers could materialise, but she could. And she would, sooner than she ever even realised it to be.
THOMAS HUGH ADOLPHUS TALBOT had given nothing but pleasure, resisted temptation by the smooth sound of lies and untruth, offering satisfaction with everything anyone expects. An idea, a complex impression, he achieves and delivers, never disappointing nor aggrieved. A standard to the ton, conforming to a suspicion one approves of and regard appropriate. A skill to please the crowd, the pandemonium of throngs corrupted with a fantasy, a tale where nothing else mattered but their craving for fortune and wealthy resource. He resembles a statue ( higher than what Babel could have been ) of emerald, gold, and scarlet ruby, forged into unforgiving words struck by lightning as bitter as ice, as cold as a furnace, never heard by anyone but his ears alone. This young man was blessed, all would say, he has been given the rights to riches and heirdom but he will, forever in perpetuity, be deserted. He held a secret no one would assume, he holds lies threaded with the finest solidarity and distant triumph. This boy, son of the gods and sun itself, is silver and iron but corroded with torment. Marred yet heavenly, cursed by the kiss of the devil, never to be salvaged from this false phoenix's ashes.
BUT HE HAD FOUND HIS match, a woman so ignorant, imperfect ( apparently the only humane person he could find ), and precise. She was so driven by her determination to prove lusting horrors wrong, turn each speculation down all for the course of reigning victorious by her right, by her mind and assumption and them alone. They never saw the other completely, translucent by the first sight, blinding to opaque at transcending terms, but it fades away. It flutters like specks of dust under watchful, intimidating, impartial orifices unlike they imagined or hoped it to be. An understanding so pure, so honest, it puts all theories of hers and mistrusts of his to shame. For who could ever learn the heart of a broken boy but a girl who has faced struggles of it herself?
