isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone
She is a quiet thing, more like a ghost that haunts the edges of the kingdom and the banks of its river rather than a real resident. From her lookouts she had observed them – the new shadow-queen and her impressive duo of monsters, the various array of other residents, and the galaxy-drenched twins that she knew were her newest siblings. To everyone else they blended in with the rest of her father’s starspun brood, but Islas had recognized something in them instantly. There was something oddly familiar about the exact stars and stardust and nebulas on their skin, and it triggered a reaction in her – like a memory trying to claw its way to the forefront of her mind, like Stave and Desire had ‘home’ stretched across their very skeletons.
But the feeling was just that – a flickering feeling, one that extinguished itself just as quickly as it had come. It disappeared into that endless cavern of her chest, that black hole that devoured most of her emotions and left her feeling more like a shell than a living being.
She has grown considerably, having long since shed the softness of adolescence, and blossomed instead into her maturity. She was a mix of sharpness – her face, with those high-set cheekbones and purple-black eyes that swallow any emotion that tries to reach the surface – and femininity, with her delicate curves and the ethereal glow that radiated subtly from her white skin.
And somewhere in the depths of those impossibly dark eyes there is a curiosity, glimmering like a star in a galaxy too far away from anyone else to see it. She watches him, and she wonders, as she often does, what it would be like to have such emotion teeming beneath the skin. She still doesn’t know why she feels almost nothing; why she can’t laugh and smile as vibrant as they do, why she never feels fear or anger or sorrow. She thinks maybe a part of her was still trapped in space, in that far-flung galaxy that the star held captive in the cage of her ribs still cried out to.
“Does it feel like a storm inside of your chest?” She asks him as she draws closer, and though her voice is soft it is hollow, like an echo. He reminds her of the ocean; a dangerous, quiet kind of rage. She wonders if he is trying to keep the anger contained, if it is raging against the confines of his body – or she wonders if he is begging it to leave but it is clinging like a shadow to his soul, knowing the sunlight will never find it there.
@[Set]