isolt marcello

I'm more alive than I've ever been

The man before her had been a great many things in the years that they had known one another, the myriad roles into which he had assimilated proving motley and many- stranger, friend, teacher, savior, confidant, lover... mate. They had grown with one another, the threads of their individual journeys woven together into a tapestry depicting a story unlike anything either of them could have dreamt during that first meeting amidst the throng of a crowded concert venue.

He had been a great many things to her, but an enemy he had never been.

Until now.

Now he was the person who found himself situated between a mother and the child that had been taken from her, the crosshairs of her ire placed firmly upon him. He was the person who had, in her very lowest moment, sought to obliterate all memory, all traces, of their daughter. He had sought to feed upon her weakness like a ravenous scavenger, bloodthirsty and merciless. And, after this most heinous transgression, he still manages to summon the gall to bear the spires of his fangs to her. Whether or not he plans to use them against his wife was of no consideration to the raging woman, the plush cushion of her upper lip peeling back even further to reveal the true length of her own ivory pins. A dare. A challenge.

The inferno of her own ire sees her momentarily blinded, her mate's heartfelt sentiments and cresting tears doing naught to dissuade her in these few tremulous moments, the blood-bare bulbs of her knuckles twisting still further into the already-stressed fabric of his shirt. There are a few moments of heavy, gut-roiling silence that pass between the two opposing vampires in the wake of his imploration as if the very walls themselves consumed his words. And then the vice-like grip of her fingers slowly begins to slacken, her features releasing from the pinched facade of her fury. His questions, she realizes, have no answers. He seeks reason where there is none to be had, prods for resolution where little exists. The realization is a hefty one, Isolt simply allowing her head to fall to rest against her lover's chest, the ruby tendrils of tears almost instantly creating crimson blossoms upon his shirt. A long moment passes between them before she whispers into his chest. "I don't know. I don't know what to do, Damon."

She dissolves then into a fit of sobbing that sends her entire body trembling as she leans more so into the remarkably solid frame of her husband. She nearly chokes on her next words. "I just want to be her mother. I don't want her to be alone... I don't want her to be afraid." It is all that he shall receive in the way of justification, distorted and unintelligible as it might very well have been. How was she possibly to force understanding unto him when she herself could not rightly discern why the presence of her daughter beyond the veil of mortal life called to her in such a forceful manner? It was beyond both of them, this maternal yearning, and so the redheaded vampire can do little more than rest against the chest of her lover and allow her eyes to fall to a close.