don't ruin this for me
She wonders about his father, who is born from the water, too.
They are nothing alike, the two of them stood by the river tonight, and so she has no reason to wonder if their fathers are the same. She is made of glass, just as her father is made of glass, and it is evident that there is nothing about him that is fragile. He is made of flesh and bone, as her mother is made of flesh and bone, so she does not wonder if their fathers are the same but wonders if they are familiar instead.
She does not get the opportunity to ask, though.
Because he asks her something and she looks from his handsome face to the river.
Their river.
Still, that dreamy smile as she wordlessly edges closer to the water. She feels no creeping sensation of self-awareness as she dips her head, skims her mouth gentle across the surface. The water shudders as she exhales. And when she lifts her head, it follows. It runs down her neck to collect at her sides. With it, she fashions herself wings like his. It is the only magic she has, but it is hers. She cannot make anything else with it, cannot conjure water from thin air the way her father can, but she still believes she belongs to it and it to her,
She turns to him then, her head tilted, the galaxy gaze someplace far away. And when she blinks, the water splashes back into the river from whence it came. “The water does not love me as it loves my father, but I like to believe it loves me all the same,” she murmurs, lyrical, as she joins him on the shore again.
There is still some glimmer of fear, certainly, she can feel it just as she feels the fog that swallows them up. But the voice in her head does nothing to trouble her. She delights in it, the way it licks greedy at the edges of her psyche. It feels like something solid, tangible.
He stiffens and she feels it, too. She peers back at him and it is not lost on her that there is some sharp edge to his gaze now. But she still smiles dreamy at him, because she has lived her whole life in fear, she knows how to navigate and compartmentalize it.
He apologizes and she tilts her fine head, reaches for him as his plea echoes in her chest.
“Don’t be sorry,” she murmurs, skimming the cool glass of her mouth across the heat of his shoulder. What a stark contrast it is, the kind of thing that she will never get used to, she thinks.
“I won’t leave,” she vows, the voice airy, untroubled. The vague air of fear dissolves and she sinks closer, huffs a soft breath into his skin. “I think it’s wonderful.”
@[Molech]