02-27-2022, 12:43 AM
Ryatah
WHEN I WAS SHIPWRECKED I THOUGHT OF YOU
IN THE CRACKS OF LIGHT I DREAMED OF YOU
She knows too well what it means to be haunted, but thinks that maybe it is not the same if you are the one responsible for the creation of your demons.
She could have left them behind at any time, but she never has. Her demons have handsome faces and take her to impossible places, evoke unnameable feelings in her chest that she can never quite shake. Even if she left she would be forever carved with their memories—something deeper than in her bones or across her heart, because all these things have been made brand new and she is still the same.
She has never done much to avoid darkness. She had let it inside of her so long ago she does not remember what she had been like without it; so long ago she is not sure what parts she was born with and what parts had been shaped. To think that she had once been truly innocent and naive was impossible to imagine—not even she believes that girl had ever existed, thinks that she had never been alive until this version of her was first created in the depths of that tangled jungle in a land far from here.
It’s why she had never felt like much of an angel—why it all felt like some sort of twisted version of a joke, a spotlight shining on her to prove that for all her softness, she is not fooling anyone. Throughout her history she has had a multitude of chances to choose the morally good over the morally bad, and all she had done is further cement herself into an infinite gray area.
He is looking at her with a kind of reverence for having unwittingly chased away the soul that antagonized him, but what would he think if he knew she would have looked the other way if it had been Carnage tormenting him instead of a nameless (to her) soul? Would he still think her an angel then, or would he realize all her glow did was hide how tarnished her halo had become?
This thought is quickly buried as she reaches forward to touch her nose to his back, trailing lightly across his spine until the golden warmth of healing had seeped into every injury. She has used her healing far more than she ever thought she would, surprising herself with her own generosity. His wounds are not the worst that she has dealt with, and although the strangeness of their source presents a different kind of challenge she is finished soon enough. “You’re welcome,” she says softly before drawing away, though her nose lingers curiously over one of his rosettes. There are other jaguar-colored horses in Beqanna; Atrox had an entire life before her, just as she had one before him. But she still cannot rid Firion from her mind when she looks at him, but she knows better than to ask—knows that even if Firion is his father he might not realize it.
“Does he bother you a lot?” she asks instead, still close but no longer touching. She has always been unabashed in her desire for closeness, ignoring boundaries and pressing herself where she had not yet been invited. Even after her unwilling excursion into the void her wariness of strangers had proven to be short-lived, made clear by how relaxed she stood alongside this young stallion she had never met, her stardust drifting lazily from her wings across his side.
She could have left them behind at any time, but she never has. Her demons have handsome faces and take her to impossible places, evoke unnameable feelings in her chest that she can never quite shake. Even if she left she would be forever carved with their memories—something deeper than in her bones or across her heart, because all these things have been made brand new and she is still the same.
She has never done much to avoid darkness. She had let it inside of her so long ago she does not remember what she had been like without it; so long ago she is not sure what parts she was born with and what parts had been shaped. To think that she had once been truly innocent and naive was impossible to imagine—not even she believes that girl had ever existed, thinks that she had never been alive until this version of her was first created in the depths of that tangled jungle in a land far from here.
It’s why she had never felt like much of an angel—why it all felt like some sort of twisted version of a joke, a spotlight shining on her to prove that for all her softness, she is not fooling anyone. Throughout her history she has had a multitude of chances to choose the morally good over the morally bad, and all she had done is further cement herself into an infinite gray area.
He is looking at her with a kind of reverence for having unwittingly chased away the soul that antagonized him, but what would he think if he knew she would have looked the other way if it had been Carnage tormenting him instead of a nameless (to her) soul? Would he still think her an angel then, or would he realize all her glow did was hide how tarnished her halo had become?
This thought is quickly buried as she reaches forward to touch her nose to his back, trailing lightly across his spine until the golden warmth of healing had seeped into every injury. She has used her healing far more than she ever thought she would, surprising herself with her own generosity. His wounds are not the worst that she has dealt with, and although the strangeness of their source presents a different kind of challenge she is finished soon enough. “You’re welcome,” she says softly before drawing away, though her nose lingers curiously over one of his rosettes. There are other jaguar-colored horses in Beqanna; Atrox had an entire life before her, just as she had one before him. But she still cannot rid Firion from her mind when she looks at him, but she knows better than to ask—knows that even if Firion is his father he might not realize it.
“Does he bother you a lot?” she asks instead, still close but no longer touching. She has always been unabashed in her desire for closeness, ignoring boundaries and pressing herself where she had not yet been invited. Even after her unwilling excursion into the void her wariness of strangers had proven to be short-lived, made clear by how relaxed she stood alongside this young stallion she had never met, her stardust drifting lazily from her wings across his side.
AND IT WAS REAL ENOUGH TO GET ME THROUGH —
BUT I SWEAR YOU WERE THERE
@Fyr