let's see how deep we get ; malca

[xyrem]

these are the last blues we're ever gonna have, let's see how deep we get
the glow of the cities below lead us back to the places that we never should have left

Father wants me to become strong.

Whatever that means. Well, I know what that means, but hell, I’m just a kid. Barely three months old and while I can cover myself in flames and disintegrate the grass under my feet, I don’t know where strength comes from or what it’s used for. Dad is just a weirdo who seems to be thoroughly obsessed with all of the wrong things. Should he be focused on raising Missy and I instead? We can be strong later, or whatever. Right now, I only want to focus on the two most important things in life: playing and napping.

Well that, and making friends! I've not really talked and played with kids my age aside from Missy, and Missy is my sister. Bare is here too somewhere, and he’s really fun to play with too, but I want to make other friends besides just my family. Family gets a little boring after a while, especially with Dad and his weird stuff and bossiness. He’s always talking about his childhood, and how he claimed a kingdom when he was just a year old, and how I should grow up and do the same, and Missy should, too. It’s like, why are you so obsessed with me? I’m just a kid, Dad.

I’ve finally shaken Missy off of me – “I want to take a nap, Missy, leave me alone” – and I’m off by myself for once, probably for the first time since I was born. I love my sister to death, and we do everything together, including wreaking havoc just because, but I want to explore Loess on my own for once. With a quick thought I light myself on fire just for the hell of it, giggling maniacally as the grass shrivels up under my hooves. I may be a small terrorist in the making, and it doesn’t help that Missy encourages it, but that’s alright with me.

i'm yours 'til the earth starts to crumble and the heavens roll away

xyrem

( i'm struggling to exist with you and without you )

@[Malca] he may actually be insane

[Malca]

The soul that became Malca forgot the river quickly.

She forgot the lessons wound in  close against the tight ‘s’ of its curved bank; how she was born into a violent planet, confirmed by the static and noise of her debut foray into life’s cacophonous first chapter — the frenzied assaults of the river rapids hammering against the stone in agonized mania, desperate to rekindle with an ocean lover at long last. She forgot, just as she forgot the place where souls choose souls. She forgot, just as she forgot that the river, and its noise, was hardly the most savage aspect of her creation. She forgot that she chose them, that they were not some predetermined fate set out across the galaxy like constellations.

Each time her mother pressed her lips against the swirl of hair on her forehead, she forgot.
And each time her mother pressed her lips against the swirl of hair on her forehead, or her father looked at her with this kindness that lay still in the backs of his eyes, she chose them again.

And life became so different so quickly.

The world opened itself up like petals in the morning sunlight, and Malca wanted all of it. She wanted to know what the mountains were made of, and why they were so desperate to reach out and touch the sky. She wanted to know when exactly that same sky met the ocean on the horizon. She wanted to know how far into the earth the trees rooted themselves. These same wonders are what stir her awake now in the quiet, gentle darkness of a small mountain cave.

It isn’t often that she is out venturing alone, but today she will.

Today she slinks from the warmth of her mother’s side while she sleeps with her wings, looking like the leaves of the canopy of branches overhead, drawn tightly to her sides.

It isn’t that her mother wouldn’t have her fostering her own sense of independence, but rather a decision that Malca had yet to see breech water. She knows she’s different; has learned it by the consistent attention she draws in the company of strangers. It’s a look that makes her uneasy — a look she cannot decipher, but is similarly worn on each one of them, and one she notices too often in passing. She’s too young yet to recognize it as pity, too young to realize she’s damaged. Sometimes she falters, though. Sometimes it can feel as though her skin has melted off under the heat of their gaze, that her bones are laid bare, exposed, raw.

The quick furrow of her mother’s brows was often enough to sweep the expression right off their gawking faces, but Malca wields no such power just yet. Instead she is subject to hearing the well-intended, but still prickly, hushed whispers of strangers around her as she passes alone.

It’s such a shame.
She is so beautiful, otherwise.

She doesn’t know what they mean — that her face is so exquisitely lovely, marred only by the one milky eye on her right, and that she walks with the slightest lean to her left, overcompensating naturally for the lack of vision on her right. She would one day, but for now she plunders past them, feeling the weight of their eyes until she rounds the next bend of Loess and something far more interesting beckons her attention.

It’s the flames that draw her close, but what keeps her is what writhes just between them; the fire dancer. The sound of his laughter is jovial and so light that it seems to float up, up, up, like the thick coil of smoke that plumes out from his miraculously unsinged forelock.

“What does it feel like to burn?” She asks him, not thinking about her damage, her asymmetrical eyes wide and oversize with her own wonder. If she could remember the place where souls choose souls, she might know. She smiles for him, daintily and with her lips drawn tightly together as she has learned to do (lest a stranger see the sharpness of her teeth and startle at another of her oddities); a gesture of friendship, even if she ought to leave well enough alone. 

@[xyrem]