isolt griffin

It is surprising, really, how completely comforted she is by the feel of his weight upon the bed beside her; the gentle pressure betraying the fact that he remains. That he is there. Even were it not for the soft slope of her bed beneath his weight to tell of his return, Isolt would know of it for his presence has transformed into something of a sixth sense for the demure young woman in the year since they had met. She can feel him in an almost tangible way in every last corner of whatever room within which he lingers. She knows him by the inequivocable calm that is ever so rare for one as timid and plagued as she has become. And so instinctively does her hand grasp for his in the cool dark so that she might anchor herself to him in this simplest manner, the phantom stars overhead casting their glimmer as diamonds upon the glassy azure surface of her admiring eyes.

The words leave her lips in an almost offhand manner as she rests against his shoulder so easily. Should she have been entirely truthful with herself Isolt would have hardly expected a response from her companion, so when one does leave his lips in a burly whisper she cannot help but deviate her eyes towards his own. Isolt is aware to some unspoken extent that Damon possesses quite the aversion to commitment on the topic of romantic relationships. He had never spoken to her of his transient escapades curled within the sheets of other women's beds nor had the subject been willfully pursued by the naive redheaded girl; however, when the time had come for her companion to tell the tragic axiom of his turning and the betrayal of the woman he had professed to love, the proverbial pieces had been somewhat shifted into their respective places. And yet even beneath the domineering shade of this suspicion, her affection for him had never wilted. She had continued, whether to her heart's detriment remained unclear, to care for him and to hope that he might one day care for her just the same.

Isolt struggles in this, the could-be pivotal moment, to form the words that would serve her best, reaching about in the cruelest maelstrom of a swimming mind to find something, anything, that might have her lips do her heart and the emotions therein their justice. A few drawing moments of pregnant silence swathe the two nightwalkers, the enigmatic allure of Isolt's eyes searching so desparately for something, anything else within the eyes of her companion to know that it was not an illusion orchestrated by her own foolish hope. That her mind and heart had not crafted this hoax so that she might misunderstand his intent. A single hand rises to frame his jaw, the supple bulbs of her fingertips featherlight against his skin. "I promise," she whispers, her brow furrowing at what she must next request of him. "If you can promise me the same. If you can be mine."