Salty Air // regulus black

cliff hanger

Ara's voice fought to speak, constrained by the tension that gripped the atmosphere of the room.

Yet, before her voice could utter any cohesive thought, the boy's movements shattered the fragile silence. He desperately clamored against the sheets, fighting to sit upright.

Ara took an instinctive step back, unnoticeable, but the aged floorboards beneath her betrayed her movement with a soft creak.

In an instant, the boy was hurdling himself toward her, his injured body cutting swiftly across the room's distance even in his weakened state.

She had barely a breath to brace herself she felt her back striking the cold floor with a sharp thud. The air was knocked from her lungs, a groan escaping her lips as pain radiated through her body.

But the immediate pain was eclipsed by a pain that her unfocused eyes could see.

Rough hands clung around her throat, the constraint cutting off both her air and the pleas she fought to release.

Ara had always been seen as too gentle, too kind by those that felt her—qualities her grandparents feared would one day be her undoing.

But now, as she struggled for a breath, her eyes bulging as she clamored against the hands that weighed down ok her.

Even as fear clawed at her mind, she couldn't fathom how she could pity the boy whose crazed eyes bore into hers.

Memories of her grandparents' warnings danced with the pain, fear, and a sudden, clarity of her death.

Tears which she had thought run out since her grandparents passing, now streamed from the corners of her shut eyes.

The imminent thought of death drew consecutive tears down the side of her face, disappearing into her hair—Ara didn't want to die.

The boy had been screaming, words muffled against her blurred hearing.

"What the fuck did you do to me!" His hands trembling as they tightened, the force slightly shaking her head, and words punctuated by her involuntary sobs. "I know you did this to me! I know— I know—"

Her silent shakes of denial went unnoticed until with his final words, his grip loosened, rant fading into a pained whisper of doubt and disorientation. Repeated whispers of 'I know' filled the ringing in Ara's ears.

Ara scampered back against the nearest wall, her back scrabbling for any sign of comfort. She curled into herself, knees pinning themselves up to her chest, any way to shield herself from further assault.

Tears blurred her vision, heavy breaths coming out in waves as her hands planted themselves on the junction between her neck and collarbone, struggling to regain her composure.

The boy collapsed in a similar stance, his body slumping as his strength gave out, slender hands supporting his weight on trembling knees.

The once tranquil home shrouded only with the sounds of their heavy, uneven breaths and muted sobs from the violence that brewed within.

A moment of unexpected laughter bubbled from Ara, its lightness at odds with the gravity of their situation. The sound had been the calm before the storm, amplifying the sobs that followed the airy sound.

The boy's gaze snapped to her, laden with confusion softened by a solemn apology, as if his face were a masterpiece sculpted by the ancient masters. Ara just couldn't help but notice the inherent beauty that the boy held.

"I don't know," he whispered, his voice a tentative bridge seeking understanding.

His simple admission met Ara's teary eyes as her sobs diminished into hiccups. Her hands had been fighting to ward off any further tears that slipped past her eyes.

Ara gave a slow nod, their gazes meeting in the middle with a shared understanding of what they had endured.

Despite the terror of what the boy had done, Ara found herself enveloped by a reluctant empathy for the boy. Surely, whatever he had gone through had disoriented him beyond measure.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, her voice raspy from the previous assault on her throat.

It was his turn to nod, though his eyes dropped to the wooden planks, heavy with his own burden.

"You're not," he replied softly, the air around his words tinged with regret, which Ara quietly accepted as an apology.

It had hurt to laugh, yet she did. It was a desperate release from the tension that thickened the air between them.

"Nothing I can't handle," she assured him with a wry smile, though he only stared at the corners of her lips, shaped by her forced cheer.

Pushing herself, Ara's legs trembled as she stood, trembling hands braced against the wall as she didn't trust what composure she believed to have.

She sniffled, lightening her tone with a hint of tease that hid the fear she felt to the boy before her, "I assume you can get back to the bed by yourself."

The boy, whose attention fixed on her every move, nodded and managed to haul himself up. Desperately clinging to the doorway for support, he limped back to the bed where Ara couldn't see him, each step weighed down by his scars.

The tremor in Ara's hand worsened noticeably as she walked to the living room to grab the phone, her eyes warily darting to the open door every so often.

Fingers hurriedly typing the only telephone number she remembered, the phone repeatedly rung, reminiscent of the ringing that ran through her ear moments before.

"Hello?" A familiar voice spoke from behind the device.

A relieved smile quivered on Ara's lips as she managed a weak reply "Hi, Deborah."

"Ara! I was worried when you didn't show up. It's a good thing Cillian had consoled me; otherwise, I would have been banging at your door."

Deborah's laughter brought a lightness Ara yearned to feel, and a part of her wished she had come banging on her door. "You're sick again, aren't you, my dear?"

"Yes, Debbie. How'd you guess?" Ara's voice carried a tired lightness, her fingers nervously picking at each other, still fixed on that daunting door.

Deborah's laughter boomed through the phone, soothing Ara's frayed nerves. "No offense, dear, but you sound terrible. I wouldn't have recognised you if it weren't for that sweetness you have.

"Don't worry about going to the market today. Go get some rest; I'll handle the rest," Deborah insisted, cutting off Ara's feeble protests with a firm decisiveness that left no room for argument. "It's a losing game, dear."

"Really, Deborah, you don't need to," Ara persisted, even as she felt the strain in her throat.

"Ara, dear," Deborah's voice softened, then firmed again. "Just don't overwork yourself. Cillian and I will miss you."

Ara conceded with a soft "Okay," and after a few more assurances, she hung up, the phone's click echoing in the still, solemn air left by the morning breeze.