06-11-2021, 12:58 PM
she looks like sleep to the freezing
He smiles and perhaps this would have perturbed her if she were not such a strange thing herself. (For doesn’t it take a troubled thing to smile when confronted with the reality of pain? Are troubled things not meant to be feared?)
He smiles and the pupil-less eyes do not shift from the place where the bone erupts from the skin. The bone glows, she notices, and this is a peculiar thing but she is also a peculiar thing. In fact, is there a thing in Beqanna that is not peculiar? He does not flinch away from her, so she does not draw away. Instead, she traces the bone from the place where it starts to the place where it ends. She wonders if this is what the bone of her own shoulder looks like, underneath the ice and the cracked skin. She wonders if her own bones are made of ice, if there are any bones left at all.
Out of the corner of her own eye she sees him tilt his head but she does not return his gaze as she continues her assessment of all that bone, all that dried and drying blood. (Does it transfer to the ice of her mouth?) She does not smile the way he had smiled when he challenges her about her own pain. Instead, she finally lifts her head and turns to meet his eye. (Notice how both gazes are such a vibrant blue.)
“If it does, I have not noticed,” she tells him honestly. If there is any pain at all it is numbed by the cold of it. The armor of the ice works both ways, protecting her both from others and from herself. She shifts her weight and returns to her appraisal of the bone, though she does not reach out to touch him again.
“What else hurts?” she asks, head tilted in question.
He smiles and the pupil-less eyes do not shift from the place where the bone erupts from the skin. The bone glows, she notices, and this is a peculiar thing but she is also a peculiar thing. In fact, is there a thing in Beqanna that is not peculiar? He does not flinch away from her, so she does not draw away. Instead, she traces the bone from the place where it starts to the place where it ends. She wonders if this is what the bone of her own shoulder looks like, underneath the ice and the cracked skin. She wonders if her own bones are made of ice, if there are any bones left at all.
Out of the corner of her own eye she sees him tilt his head but she does not return his gaze as she continues her assessment of all that bone, all that dried and drying blood. (Does it transfer to the ice of her mouth?) She does not smile the way he had smiled when he challenges her about her own pain. Instead, she finally lifts her head and turns to meet his eye. (Notice how both gazes are such a vibrant blue.)
“If it does, I have not noticed,” she tells him honestly. If there is any pain at all it is numbed by the cold of it. The armor of the ice works both ways, protecting her both from others and from herself. She shifts her weight and returns to her appraisal of the bone, though she does not reach out to touch him again.
“What else hurts?” she asks, head tilted in question.
camellia
@[Reave]