GRETA
I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
" Do you remember? "
She was born here - burst forth from the cosmos and magic; a slick and tiny thing ripe for the picking. Unknowing and unwanting, a reckless mistake (one her father is wont to do). It is so easy to create and not follow through - why are there so many unwanted things in this world? Abandoned; thrown to the dogs; discarded in the throes of of self-service. This is what it is to be a child of the magician, a child of the cosmos, of the vast indifference of Beqanna. You thrive alone (or you are lost to the darkness).
There is something heavy in the way her heart thrums, a dull ache that she cannot recall ever being there before. Here - a place so insurmountable, a beckoning that sways through her blood (though she cannot tell why). There is a beacon on the horizon, a hazy and purple light that sways to her. A siren call, a heavy thread. It saws neatly through her skin and draws her in, reeling inch by inch, her footsteps not hers alone.
There is something to be said about having to venture into the vast unknown by your lonesome. There is no direction - no hand pointing which way to go. No surety in your actions or decisiveness. She is reckless, wavering in the vast ocean of choice. Choice, decision, direction; is this what she is driven by? Is this hers alone? She does not know Pangea - she is not familiar with the rickety confines of its history and geography. She does not choose her landing place on experience alone (because she knows, nothing).
Go. He commands, throaty and demanding. Come. It croons, sickly sweet and deadly.
The canyons carve around her small skin, looming and ominous like that lurking thing inside her blood (come closer) they soothe (further, just a bit further) they sing. Her body rippled by the shadows those hungry caverns throw across her. That aching river rushing a whisper of hurry hurry, this way. That steady ache in her heart, though she does not quite know why.
Go He commanded. Come It crooned.
And so she does. So she must.
There is something heavy in the way her heart thrums, a dull ache that she cannot recall ever being there before. Here - a place so insurmountable, a beckoning that sways through her blood (though she cannot tell why). There is a beacon on the horizon, a hazy and purple light that sways to her. A siren call, a heavy thread. It saws neatly through her skin and draws her in, reeling inch by inch, her footsteps not hers alone.
There is something to be said about having to venture into the vast unknown by your lonesome. There is no direction - no hand pointing which way to go. No surety in your actions or decisiveness. She is reckless, wavering in the vast ocean of choice. Choice, decision, direction; is this what she is driven by? Is this hers alone? She does not know Pangea - she is not familiar with the rickety confines of its history and geography. She does not choose her landing place on experience alone (because she knows, nothing).
Go. He commands, throaty and demanding. Come. It croons, sickly sweet and deadly.
The canyons carve around her small skin, looming and ominous like that lurking thing inside her blood (come closer) they soothe (further, just a bit further) they sing. Her body rippled by the shadows those hungry caverns throw across her. That aching river rushing a whisper of hurry hurry, this way. That steady ache in her heart, though she does not quite know why.
Go He commanded. Come It crooned.
And so she does. So she must.