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DARLING, YOU KNOW ALL OF ME !
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( .....every aching piece of my soul. )
—IT TOOK AWHILE FOR Circe to sink back into her real form; she clutched the trauma with white-knuckles and a strained expression, not knowing how to let go of its body.
She could remember stumbling out of Praesidium, ochre exploding in vivid sparks behind her. She could remember feeling Regulus' skin against her own, the warmth flooding between them. She could remember Lily's embrace. And she could, finally, remember the presence of Dumbledore, conveying a 'talk later' look towards her fragile limbs.
The next month persisted like that, where the girl would cradle herself and shake in and out of the present day. The wounds may of left her skin, albeit the memories didn't go anywhere. So, most nights, occurred the same:
Circe, bundled in linen and cotton, waking up in a sweat. Her legs shaken as she felt metallic drag itself across her terrain, leaving lacerations and minisicule stab wounds.
All humans deal with trauma in differentiating ways, and with Circe it always proved to be the same. The past wouldn't nip at her gradually, it would consume her gaze for lengthy amounts of time, and only start to sink when it had all been thrown to the surface. It was something she would have to live with for evermore, but it seemed the first few weeks were alot harsher for her than the many.
And so she didn't swallow the anguish, she welcomed it. Because it was temporary, and could only run for a certain duration.
It proved impossible for Regulus to still be alive, and yet there he was, breathing and laughing and existing. Nobody was able to explain it, not ink-stained prophets, not prominent professors, not even the books foretold of this miracle. Albeit there he stood, and there he remained.
That was all there was to it. No further explaining could be done; then, they'd have to peel open the layers of Circe Einar and dissect her internal mechanics.
