isolt griffin
I'm more alive than I've ever been
The curtains of her eyelids flutter wistfully to a close with the caress of his fingers against her cheek, caring naught for the teardrop that draws its crimson vein down the pallor of her skin. This moment with him was too tender, too right, to fret over such insignificant and trivial things. Never would Isolt have believed that she might dare venture into the sun again, the redheaded woman clinging to the recollection of the sunrise that Tetradore had gifted her all those years ago with such desperation that, had it been tangible it would have splintered in her hands. That sunrise had been the last she would ever have the means to see, she had been certain of it for so many years and now... she stood in the radiance of its ethereal light with this man she loved so completely.
And still he promised her more.
It would be some greater measure of time before the redheaded woman would be capable of accepting that she was no longer sequestered beyond the veil of abject darkness... that their daughter would know her parents not only in the blackness of midnight. It is this thought, the thought of their daughter and the relative normality promised for her by this single, momentous gift that presides over all others in the spotlight of Isolt's mind as the long fingers of sunlight draw their warmth against the deathly cold of her flesh.
The cerulean of her eyes linger upon the wedding band that adorns her finger, in awe of her husband and the lengths he demonstrated such a willingness, such an ability, to reach in order to dote upon her in the way that only he seemed capable of. She brings his hand to her lips, brushing them in a sweet caress across the rise of his knuckles before ever so gently placing his hand against the swell of her belly, for inside does their child dance in a manner almost giddy. She dances as if she can feel the warmth of the sun's ethereal rays, and the warmth of her parents' love, even now.