isolt griffin

Had she breath it very well may have caught within her throat, stymied by the fibrous knot that constricts there; the same knot that halts the syllables that seek the curl of her tongue so desparately. She laments the pain caused by her marginally-involuntary quietude, cringing as he looks away as if surrendering his entire heart to this moment... surrendering himself to her in this paradoxically simplistic manner. Isolt had dreamt and doubted that she might ever hear him utter such intimate things to her, that he might ever admit aloud the feelings she, herself, had condemned to the farthest confines of her bleeding heart. She seemed every bit his opposite, truly, so how could it be that he would desire her in this manner she yearned for? How could it be that he would see fit to place himself here, in her bed, when there were surely an innumerable gaggle of other women who would have been ever-so pleased to have him in theirs? It is for this reason that she is silent a time... doubt stays the affirmation she yearns to give him.

Until... finally, she does.

And then, it seems that the proverbial tables are turned, shifted so that it is her turn surrender, to ail beneath the heft of what she asks of him. And she does surrender, wholly and without pause, to the silence that spreads between him as his eyes flick open to meet her own. A soft and breathy chortle is all that she is capable of giving for a long moment, her face leaning into the soothing caress of his hand before she slowly and purposefully brings her lips to his. It is a brief caress, yet no less magnanimous in its implications as she lingers there but a moment before drawing away in one leisurely movement. Never before had she known this contentment, and certainly not in the tumult that had been her afterlife had she ever felt so peaceful in a single moment. It is warmth beneath the cool pallor of her flesh, the phantom racing of her heart though she knows, with the purest sobriety, that it remains as still as it always has been. It is Damon who is the racing of her heart, the chimera of butterfly wings fluttering against her innards. He is desire and peace all in the same moment, and she finds herself unobstrusively put at ease.

Lightly does she lay her head against his chest, her lithe frame melding to his in a manner most beautiful as she further seeks the comfort of his touch. Isolt has fled touch for so long that here, now, and with him does she thirst for it in a ravenous way... greedy almost in her insistence. After a few silent moments do her eyes flutter to a close and, for the first time in a long, long while Isolt sleeps soundly.