[open] I don't wanna hear what's impossible; any

[sigrid]

hope was a word, just a glimmer of the blade

She recognizes him.
Perhaps even more than that, she knows him. 

And what a strange thing it is to feel that knowing pulsate in the marrow of her bones in a world that has gone so terribly awry. (So much has changed, you see, since the darkness lifted. She had been a thing meant for being seen in the darkness—see the way she glows, see how the galaxies spiral—but perhaps had not been meant to see in the light.

But this is a familiar thing in a world full of strange things, this figure.
Even if, at first, she cannot quite remember how she knows him.
(The heart knows, of course. The heart cannot forget the thing that grew it, that fed it, that birthed it.)

It has been so long. Wars have been waged, kingdoms have fallen. And yet, they remain.

She is quiet in her approach, remembering how the darkness had turned them both briefly electric. How many years have passed since then? She has lost count or, perhaps, she never kept count in the first place.

“You,” she says, whisper-soft, tilting her fine head. And maybe the strangest thing is this: she smiles. “I know you.” 

She does not call him father, she does not call him mother, though he is both. Instead, she calls him: “Sleaze.” 

— sigrid