05-17-2020, 12:47 AM
choke them on the ashes of the dreams they burned
He startles her, accidentally, and he fights away the hunger that gnaws at his gut at the scent of her fear. Fear is adjacent to the things he craves, and in the silence between them – that moment when she is staring at him all doe-eyed and utterly innocent – he fights away the urge to see if he could incite from her what he truly wants.
He does not think she is made of anger; he cannot imagine this girl spun of starlight ever being fueled by rage, and so that is pushed to the side.
But she could be sad, of this is he sure, because as light is opposite to dark, so are happiness and sadness. And you cannot have one without the other; their existence depends on their counterpart.
(And how long would it take to break her until she is nothing but despair and sorrow, how long until she is so entirely made from it that he could suck her dry and be satisfied?)
He catches himself in these thoughts, and he blinks his bright red eyes to bring her face back into focus. There is shame burning in his throat and it drops to settle like a hot coal in the pit of his stomach, and he almost leaves without an explanation. Torryn has never been a cruel creature, but the shadows have began to turn him into something – someone – else entirely. He wonders how long he can fight it; he wonders if this feeling of starvation is real, if it is not just something his addled mind is tricking him into believing.
She reaches forward to touch him, and he knows he should pull away. He already knows, even before it happens, that she is not going to feel him. She will pass through him like the nothing that he is, and he is so afraid of the emptiness that they are both about to find that he is not sure if he can withstand the disappointment. Despite his earlier thoughts of what she would be like full of sorrow, he realizes, already, he does not want to see the light ever dimmed in her eyes.
He is surprised, then, that he does feel something. It is not quite tangible, it is not as sure and strong as touching skin-to-skin, but the shadow of him seems to recognize the starlight of her, and that, more than anything, causes him to forget the incessant hunger clawing at him.
“Dark,” and it is no surprise at all that his tongue caresses a name like that so perfectly, and there is a wisp of a smile on his mouth in appreciation of her joke. “How ironic.”
He resists the urge to turn away when she studies his face, afraid of what she might find the longer she looks at him. The tendrils of his mane swirl and billow like smoke across the shadowy shape of his neck and in front of those bright, burning eyes that she stares so closely at, yet he does not move. He wonders if she can feel the way he is staring back; the way he is looking so closely at her face, trying to understand why something so light and delicate was choosing to stay.
“There is nothing wrong with brown,” he tells her, and if the harsh glow of his eyes can soften then they do. “My mother’s eyes are brown.” He does not say that his eyes used to be brown; he does not say that he would give anything to have plain brown eyes and be simple blue roan again. “My name is Torryn.” He looks again to the starlight draped across her, and though he finds himself taking a step closer, he does not touch her. “You are made of starlight?” The question is asked with a quiet kind of wonder, and maybe also a trace of envy, though it is so faint he does not recognize it; consciously, he just wonders would it would be like to be made of light rather than shadow.
He does not think she is made of anger; he cannot imagine this girl spun of starlight ever being fueled by rage, and so that is pushed to the side.
But she could be sad, of this is he sure, because as light is opposite to dark, so are happiness and sadness. And you cannot have one without the other; their existence depends on their counterpart.
(And how long would it take to break her until she is nothing but despair and sorrow, how long until she is so entirely made from it that he could suck her dry and be satisfied?)
He catches himself in these thoughts, and he blinks his bright red eyes to bring her face back into focus. There is shame burning in his throat and it drops to settle like a hot coal in the pit of his stomach, and he almost leaves without an explanation. Torryn has never been a cruel creature, but the shadows have began to turn him into something – someone – else entirely. He wonders how long he can fight it; he wonders if this feeling of starvation is real, if it is not just something his addled mind is tricking him into believing.
She reaches forward to touch him, and he knows he should pull away. He already knows, even before it happens, that she is not going to feel him. She will pass through him like the nothing that he is, and he is so afraid of the emptiness that they are both about to find that he is not sure if he can withstand the disappointment. Despite his earlier thoughts of what she would be like full of sorrow, he realizes, already, he does not want to see the light ever dimmed in her eyes.
He is surprised, then, that he does feel something. It is not quite tangible, it is not as sure and strong as touching skin-to-skin, but the shadow of him seems to recognize the starlight of her, and that, more than anything, causes him to forget the incessant hunger clawing at him.
“Dark,” and it is no surprise at all that his tongue caresses a name like that so perfectly, and there is a wisp of a smile on his mouth in appreciation of her joke. “How ironic.”
He resists the urge to turn away when she studies his face, afraid of what she might find the longer she looks at him. The tendrils of his mane swirl and billow like smoke across the shadowy shape of his neck and in front of those bright, burning eyes that she stares so closely at, yet he does not move. He wonders if she can feel the way he is staring back; the way he is looking so closely at her face, trying to understand why something so light and delicate was choosing to stay.
“There is nothing wrong with brown,” he tells her, and if the harsh glow of his eyes can soften then they do. “My mother’s eyes are brown.” He does not say that his eyes used to be brown; he does not say that he would give anything to have plain brown eyes and be simple blue roan again. “My name is Torryn.” He looks again to the starlight draped across her, and though he finds himself taking a step closer, he does not touch her. “You are made of starlight?” The question is asked with a quiet kind of wonder, and maybe also a trace of envy, though it is so faint he does not recognize it; consciously, he just wonders would it would be like to be made of light rather than shadow.
