( a kiss -- when was the last time she'd been kissed? when charlie was alive, probably, right before he'd been sent off to die, and the sunny disposition of silena cracked and shattered into her tired, sad one. her make up brushes hung up for padded tissues, her designer clothes exchanges for charlie's big shirts and, ultimately, clarisse's set of grecian armor. who did she die for, the question arises. to protect clarisse or to meet charlie once again? the question has many answers, and neither the ones presented -- or both, or all, or there's always another angle, another reason behind why silena rose with an ares spirit in her heart and a spear in hand -- mainly, mostly, ultimately, it was for herself. half the person she was before charlie died, half the heart she had when she spied for luke and even more of it lost with clarisse's refusal to join the fight, life just wasn't the same anymore. it didn't have meaning, not if charlie was dead, not if luke was the bad guy, not if clarisse refused to fight. what more could silena offer than her worthless life?
it's the first pang of regret, this kiss. the knowledge of what she always knew but could never name on her own, could never claim a heart as hers when clarisse was so dedicated to the fight, so in love with spears and swords and chris and chris and chris, that silena could never hope to penetrate that thick skull -- her death took it, this wake up call, this realization that silena is ephemeral, is replaceable, is not as eternally clarisse's as she might have thought. she is, though, if not in the physical sense than in every other one -- this battered and beaten heart of aphrodite that's been shattered and smashed in the ground into angry, splitered pieces -- it's clarisse's, it's all hers, no matter how broken it might be, she always holds the key to fixing it up. this touch, this kiss, silena gasps and cries against her mouth, eyes shut fast and her hands moving to grasp desperately at her shirt. she wants the words to be true, this promise on the styx speaking volumes of her seriousness -- but she knows clarisse, she knows her heart sometimes better than her own, and she knows these truths.
the war is always first in achilles' heart. patroclus will always lead him into the underworld, the story of tragedy never changes, and neither will theirs.
heroes are never born to be happy. )
Silly, silly girl. My dumb Clare. ( clare, her special, beautiful clare, who makes anger and rage beautiful emotions, who wears scars and hate better than silena ever could. her hands move up and cradle this too delicate face, the face of her warrior lost of its armor, walls broken down and tears on her face. it's heartbreaking, the beauty in it, how pretty it is to see clarisse, her clare, feel anything other than violent cockiness, to cry and be open and to be the one witnessing it.
she tips her head down, pushes kisses against her eyelashes. the hero looks beautiful when she cries, but it remains to be seen if there's anything more beautiful than clarisse's smile. )
Dying for love is never stupid. Never never. ( she doesn't want to say it, and she's sure clarisse doesn't want to hear it, but what would a daughter of aphrodite be if she couldn't explain her heart? silena quiets her sobs, puts on a smile through the tears covered on her ugly face, wishes clarisse wouldn't swear something so impossible on their most sacred of vows -- but she wouldn't be clarisse if she weren't impossible, if she didn't make life and death and love all that much more difficult. ) I'd die for you again and again, it doesn't matter. Break your promise and I'll still be yours, and I'll still be dead. That's our fate. It's okay. ( she curls in close, lips pushed against hers. that's our fate, for me to always be pining for someone who will never be mine. ) It's okay. It's okay.
no subject
it's the first pang of regret, this kiss. the knowledge of what she always knew but could never name on her own, could never claim a heart as hers when clarisse was so dedicated to the fight, so in love with spears and swords and chris and chris and chris, that silena could never hope to penetrate that thick skull -- her death took it, this wake up call, this realization that silena is ephemeral, is replaceable, is not as eternally clarisse's as she might have thought. she is, though, if not in the physical sense than in every other one -- this battered and beaten heart of aphrodite that's been shattered and smashed in the ground into angry, splitered pieces -- it's clarisse's, it's all hers, no matter how broken it might be, she always holds the key to fixing it up. this touch, this kiss, silena gasps and cries against her mouth, eyes shut fast and her hands moving to grasp desperately at her shirt. she wants the words to be true, this promise on the styx speaking volumes of her seriousness -- but she knows clarisse, she knows her heart sometimes better than her own, and she knows these truths.
the war is always first in achilles' heart. patroclus will always lead him into the underworld, the story of tragedy never changes, and neither will theirs.
heroes are never born to be happy. )
Silly, silly girl. My dumb Clare. ( clare, her special, beautiful clare, who makes anger and rage beautiful emotions, who wears scars and hate better than silena ever could. her hands move up and cradle this too delicate face, the face of her warrior lost of its armor, walls broken down and tears on her face. it's heartbreaking, the beauty in it, how pretty it is to see clarisse, her clare, feel anything other than violent cockiness, to cry and be open and to be the one witnessing it.
she tips her head down, pushes kisses against her eyelashes. the hero looks beautiful when she cries, but it remains to be seen if there's anything more beautiful than clarisse's smile. )
Dying for love is never stupid. Never never. ( she doesn't want to say it, and she's sure clarisse doesn't want to hear it, but what would a daughter of aphrodite be if she couldn't explain her heart? silena quiets her sobs, puts on a smile through the tears covered on her ugly face, wishes clarisse wouldn't swear something so impossible on their most sacred of vows -- but she wouldn't be clarisse if she weren't impossible, if she didn't make life and death and love all that much more difficult. ) I'd die for you again and again, it doesn't matter. Break your promise and I'll still be yours, and I'll still be dead. That's our fate. It's okay. ( she curls in close, lips pushed against hers. that's our fate, for me to always be pining for someone who will never be mine. ) It's okay. It's okay.