DESPOINA
She thinks of him often. Constantly. He becomes the beat of her pulse until she cannot think around it. She wonders at the depthless look of his eyes. The shadows that consumed him. The way that it had nearly consumed her—even from so far away. It reaches greedy fingers for her even in the depths of her dreams and she wakes with hunger pangs, dying for something she had never even consumed before.
It makes no sense, but that does not stem the flow of the need.
The desperate, all-consuming need.
It is only by chance that she walked the forest today as herself and not the hound, and when she finally does hear his voice, she feels a flood of relief. She is not ready to share that piece of herself yet. Not ready to show him all the parts of her that she herself is not yet ready to confront. The shadows of her soul.
At first, she thinks it may be a figment of her imagination. Just a breath of chance that she conjures the sound of his voice, but when her eyes lift and she sees him, she knows that it’s not her imagination.
He is real.
For a second, she says nothing. Just stands there with the breeze winding its way around her delicate legs, pulling her dark mane up around the curve of her jaw. If she could see herself, she might think that she looked pretty—but that would be impossible. Her head drops. She could never look that way.
“Torryn,” she hates herself for how sweet his name sounds.
She hates herself for how quickly she folds into the need.
I guess the sound of your voice in the aching will just have to do