Work Text:
Camellya thinks that she could scream.
There's something rotting in her chest. That's the only explanation she can come up with for the tight pressure that's made itself a home in her ribcage. For the thorns that have curled and grown around her lungs. Sometimes she thinks that there truly are prickling vines wrapping around her heart, her very soul.
She doesn't know what it's called.
She looks at starlit eyes, and the feelings are torn between fading and compounding.
Starlit eyes look at her own, and she sees nothing but compassion in the ocean depths.
She can't stand it.
Camellya thinks that she might die.
She chokes on the feelings sometimes, when she thinks too hard about pale blue hair. Yet other times, it's like those thoughts are the only thing keeping her together. She could be battered and bruised, but nothing hurt as deeply as the longing in her chest. It's enough to kill anyone lesser.
When she's halfway across the planet, she feels the cold of winter. She could be sunburnt, she could be lit on fire, but the heat never reaches her.
She's on the shores, and she finds herself sitting beside someone.
Shorekeeper doesn't emit warmth. Her presence is barely more than air.
And yet, flowers grow beneath their feet, and Camellya leans closer as if she's the warmest thing on the planet.
Camellya thinks she could shatter.
She doesn't like weakness. She's never considered herself fragile in any regard. Like the roots and trunks of trees, she will stand through any storm. Battles are just games to her anyway.
It's the gentle touches that could ruin her. A single breeze, from the sea or the forest, could send her shattering to bits. A flower against her fingers, the grass against her skin.
A hand in her own. Lips against her forehead. Fingers dancing across her freckled shoulders, resting against rosy cheeks.
She's not sure she deserves it.
Camellya thinks she might be scared.
What else can it be?
She's shaking so violently she can't stand. It's all she can do to curl up and hide herself in the branches of a tree. She's trembling, and her cheeks feel mortifyingly wet. She's gasping for breath, biting back her sobs.
What is happening?
It can only be fear.
But what is it called when a soft voice calls out? What is it when she's coaxed from the tree by a woman in blue and brought back to her room? When she lays on a chest, and lips press into her hair? A thumb swipes her cheek, brushing the tears away in a motion that bleeds care.
Yes, she decides when her heart seizes in her chest.
This must be fear.
But she doesn't run away. She falls asleep, aware of the chin that rests against the top of her head and allowing it.
Camellya thinks of herself as a coward.
Not in most regards, though. She's not afraid of fights, and she's not afraid of voicing her opinions. She advertises her morals and intentions, uncaring of how they're received. There's no point in dancing around the point.
So she feels like a hypocrite now.
She can't hide it any longer - she needs to tell Shorekeeper. The thorns are still there, the pressure a near-permanent reminder, and she needs to let them go.
She might scream about it, because it's too much.
It could kill her, because it's too strong.
It could break her into bits, because she's too weak.
And sentinels, she's terrified. She's scared out of her mind, and she's pretty sure the vines in her hair are turning more brittle from stress alone.
She can't go on like this. She lives in the unknown, the thrills.
She lives in a lie, but she knows the truth when she sees it.
And this truth is indisputable. She can't deny it, or look away. She can't even run from it, and if there's one thing she's good at, it's fleeing from her issues.
She has to face this one.
She's on the shores. The actual shores this time, with her shoes inches from the black sand. She's not alone, either.
Starlit eyes.
Pale blue hair.
For as much as she wants to scream, she can't make a single sound at all. It's alright, though. She's always been a woman of action. She closes her eyes and concentrates, lifting a hand and feeling the creeping burn of her resonance at work.
She knows Shorekeeper can sense it. She can hear the woman turn, and can feel the concern.
She knows that Shorekeeper understands the action.
She opens her eyes. She glances at the flower. A pristine camellia, perhaps the best she's grown.
She looks into starlit eyes, and she feels uncertain.
Starlit eyes look at her own, and she sees relief.
She's glad.
She opens her arms, and Shorekeeper steps in. Their foreheads bump, and Shorekeeper smiles. They hug each other tight, and she swears that her chest grows lighter.
She can breathe again.
And Camellya thinks that she might be alright.