[open] Hello, my old heart

[Iolite]

Iolite

She rose from the tides with the insurgent splendor of an Aphrodite, sprung from the pearl of a clam shell at the heart of the sea, and thrust into a world anew with a traitorous violence that defied the gentle lapping upon the shore. She shifted from the waters croaking, hacking—with a spill of crimson that glided through the sting of salt. A deep, slender cut tapered artfully from the curve of her cheek and down to the hollow of her throat, disturbing the immaculacy of an opaline galaxy tattooed upon her skin.

And the injury bled—and bled.
It oozed starlight, it ached with a defiance that whispered:

You are alive.

An errant star adrift, she dragged herself ashore, the tawny spread of her gem-stained coat entangling wildly with the supple sand below. She did not yet dare to turn her gaze to the horizon, to eye the unfettered freedom that spread, wondrous, before her very heart. It howled with a newness that longed to be explored; with a breadth that yearned for her to seize it by the throat and to clutch it close.

You are alive, Iolite—
and you are free.

Four willowy limbs fought with newborn efficiency as she struggled to rise, teetering with damselish mispractice as she drunkenly moved inland, her throat parched and her split skin aching, her adamant progress forward disturbed only by the itch of something wet and warm mapping the contours of her body. Whether it was a rivulet of the water, or a thin stream of blood from the spring upon her throat, she could not say for certain—

But it dripped, and dripped, and dripped; it snaked down each limb in the winding red string of fate, until she braced her wounded shoulder upon the narrow width of a creaking tree. The palm’s bark bent beneath her weight, her trembling legs braced haphazardly upon the earth below, and she turned her eyes heavenward with a triumph-born smile.

She had been delivered unto the wastes to perish—
but the Moonstone had known secrets that the King did not; she had known doorways and passages beyond his ken.

And so, it was not a plea for help that left her ravaged throat as she at last spoke, but rather a whisper of hard-fought triumph.

“I am free.”

I do not want to move mountains;
I want the mountains to see me coming
and to crumble.

@Anyone <3

RAYOFLIGHT