Delicate things are pretty - cute, even,
but you are not delicate.
You are wild and lewd and unpredictable.
You are breathtaking.
You are beautiful.
She has never been terribly aware of the danger she always somehow manages to place herself in. It never occurs to her that she had even put herself in harm’s way until it is far too late. It is the way of things, for this who think too much of themselves, isn’t it? But then, she has always been particularly good at squirming out of tight spots. A rather unique ability of hers, even before she had become a master of time (well, perhaps master is too strong of a word, but you’ll never convince her of that).
Still, no matter how much she might believe otherwise, she is not truly infallible.
There had always been a wanderlust that ached inside her soul, something she hadn’t realized unfulfilled until she had begun to meddle with the ringing echoes of time that allowed her access to things she’d never thought possible. But once you’ve had a tiny taste, it’s never enough, is it? Even now she’s realizing this. So oblivious in some ways but far too insightful in others. She thinks perhaps this could be as much a prison as the magician’s grasping fingers had been. A slave to her endless desire for more. But she tries not to dwell too hard upon it. It’s a rather depressing thought, after all. And she doesn’t care for depressing thoughts.
She is distracted from the loveliness of the sunrise by the man that had crashed almost heedlessly beside her, crushed flowers and bruised grass the only evidence of his passing. She blinks at him, unafraid. Foolishly perhaps, but there is too much curiosity, too much acceptance for her to know fear. She had known it once, and it had been a fleeting thing. She does not care for fleeting things either.
“I see you too,” she replies easily, finding nothing terribly odd in his greeting. She should, of course. But then, she has always been exceedingly odd herself. It would take a great deal more for her to take note of it’s abnormality. She had been born for the unusual and strange and unseen in the same way that he had been born for time and space. “Am I not supposed to?”
Giohde