[Completed]
An alchemist who poisoned himself, an assassin who stabbed his own heart, an arsonist who burned herself, and a hero who couldn't defeat his inner monster.
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( A re-enact of Hades...
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Gammaliel heard it first before she saw it. The sea. Tide clashed against the sharp reef before it dashed, grazing against the grainy sands into seafoam. She tasted it in her tongue, the saltiness of the air, a thick trace of old-magic that perforated her scar, and the fear that began to pile up inside of her throat. The discomfort twisted her gut sadistically, panged her head before swallowed her being whole.
The case was, fear overruled the Irish witch's gut as she stopped her step. Coldness clung to every inch of her skin like a parasite, succumbed her being as if it was sticking to her tendons and there would be no other way but to rip her skin—it became a part of her. Her body gesture reeked for immediate escape, a runaway. A panic wave came in sync with the beach wave.
Winter apricity illuminated the Ireland shore then down to the turquoise water, algae grouping so dense that fishes and planktons were playing hide and seek between them. The sands were dull, pepper grey when her eyes skimmed past it, contrary with the cerulean nuanced skyline. Seagulls croaked in the daylight, sewing stitches between salty air and untamed tides. The Meredor's ocean was hardly recognizable. When it used to be covered with glow of potent magic, centuries later, the charm of Albion wore off, it became ruins—abandoned, untouched, as if sanctuary for lost souls and magical beings.
"You sure it's here?" Black's timbre was cool, breaking Poseidon's rhythm. Tide rolled higher as if he sensed Hades's presence nearing his territory. Darting his eyes to the witch, he noticed her face was drained out of any color but glacier blue in her eyes as if she was soulless.
It took several seconds before Gammaliel begrudgingly answered. "Yes."
She knew Isle of the Blessed was her kin's home, there was once High Priestess's glory and glimmer that veiled the holy ground. A voice in her head spoke to her to turn back time to a few hours ago, when her body wrapped around Regulus's arm and silver silk bedding. Hearing his heartbeat, his deep morning voice, and rambles. Because now, she couldn't feel her fingertips. Long exhales escaped her nose, wiring through a ticking rhythm made-up in her ears. Her olfactory sense was drenched in the salty air, she felt an unworldly pain that stung her like shockwave. The only noise she could hear was the flashes of memories in her head. First was the sweet, summer melody of sugar rush, lemonade, and tenderness—then came the cruciating imagery of her mother's death, the scent of whiskey, and burnt letters that made her wish to be in hell.
Suddenly, hell seemed to be a better place than being where she was.
Raven brows pulled to the center of his face, noticing the brittle voice, almost a hush. Her vocal cords was unable to emit noises, her gaze peeled away to the sea, disassociated from her surrounding. Lips parted, Black peered down to her hands, it was clutched tightly to her jumper. Black reached her palm, icicle cold when it brushed against his, though it was satiny and stiff.
