04-14-2023, 06:57 PM
who could ever leave me, darling,
but who could stay?
but who could stay?
It does not escape her how he cannot seem to look at her, but she cannot find it in herself to be offended, or even deterred by it. She knows that she is too bright—that her aura lingers on the verge of uncomfortable to look at, a celestial light that has been dimmed for mortal eyes, but only just so. She is sure she could change it now, if she wanted; she could shed this entire angel persona and let her magic morph her into something better suited for the wretched, hypocritical heart she houses inside, but of course she does not. No matter what kind of power finds its way inside of her, she never changes—her selfishness is resolute, and no amount of light has managed to uproot the darkness she has kept hold of for so long.
Truth be told, she likes being contradictory.
She likes that she is never what they expect when they see an angel; that beneath all that softness is something complex and gray, a mosaic of light and dark that would never fit together perfectly.
She has never been able to be what they want her to be, and now she is the perfect vision to match how beautifully she always fails.
“You’re not doing a very good job of it,” she says, her tone lightly teasing, thinking he will either find humor in her words or she will only succeed at irritating him. It is a risk she is used to taking, and while she does not think he poses much of a threat—at least, not in comparison to some—she is still cautious. The electricity that hums under his skin does not go unnoticed by her, and even if she might now hold the power needed to fend for herself, she is still not proficient at calling it.
He asks her where she is going, and she gives a thoughtful tilt of her head. “I never really know until I find it,” she answers after a moment, watching the fog that curls towards her. She conjures a tendril of golden stardust, much like what clings to her wings, and lets it fall in a shimmering shower through the fog, watching the strange way the light diffuses in the haze. “My name is Ryatah. Who are you?”
Truth be told, she likes being contradictory.
She likes that she is never what they expect when they see an angel; that beneath all that softness is something complex and gray, a mosaic of light and dark that would never fit together perfectly.
She has never been able to be what they want her to be, and now she is the perfect vision to match how beautifully she always fails.
“You’re not doing a very good job of it,” she says, her tone lightly teasing, thinking he will either find humor in her words or she will only succeed at irritating him. It is a risk she is used to taking, and while she does not think he poses much of a threat—at least, not in comparison to some—she is still cautious. The electricity that hums under his skin does not go unnoticed by her, and even if she might now hold the power needed to fend for herself, she is still not proficient at calling it.
He asks her where she is going, and she gives a thoughtful tilt of her head. “I never really know until I find it,” she answers after a moment, watching the fog that curls towards her. She conjures a tendril of golden stardust, much like what clings to her wings, and lets it fall in a shimmering shower through the fog, watching the strange way the light diffuses in the haze. “My name is Ryatah. Who are you?”
Ryatah
@achille