01-16-2024, 12:13 AM
yes i know that love is like ghosts,
few have seen it but everybody talks —
few have seen it but everybody talks —
She thinks she can still feel the magic, sometimes.
It’s the quiet echo of a melody she only heard once, the lingering ghost of something that was never fully alive.
A memory, that felt more like a dream.
But she remembers it—she remembers what it felt like for her soul to finally go quiet, she remembers the soft peace that had settled over her like a veil. She remembers the relief, the elation, the realization that she could have some kind of control over her curse, now.
She had not deserve to be gifted with magic, but she had been so grateful that she was.
But what she remembers the most is what it had felt like when it was ripped from her. The way she had not noticed the creeping shadows until it was too late, but more important, how the magic seemed eager to abandon her, as if it had only settled for her out of necessity, waiting for someone more worthy to come along. She does not even know where her magic went, or if she would recognize it in whoever holds it now; she isn’t sure if she would want to.
She wants to forget any of it had ever happened, but the ghosts make it nearly impossible to do so. Their voices returned to her mind with new fervor, as if they were annoyed that she had used magic to block them out, and she no longer had the energy to keep them at bay.
Narya did not even realize that she had arrived in the Gates, drifting like a ghost herself. She has never been here, and she does not recognize it for what it is, but she would have known the name; her mother had told her stories, of when her and her father lived here so long ago, back before everything between them unraveled.
All she knows is that she is standing in a meadow, still dusted with snow as winter insists on persevering, and if she tilts her head just slightly there is a stranger in the not so far distance. He is not a ghost, that much she can discern immediately, and she is surprised at the longing that sparks to life in her chest. She had lived in her self-imposed exile for so long that she had forgotten what it was like to speak to someone who is not dead, yet she is still surprised when she realizes she is walking towards him. She has always kept to herself, afraid of being unable to focus on anyone in front of her when the ghosts in her ear won’t quiet, but before she can lose her nerve she is close enough to utter a soft, “hello.”
It’s the quiet echo of a melody she only heard once, the lingering ghost of something that was never fully alive.
A memory, that felt more like a dream.
But she remembers it—she remembers what it felt like for her soul to finally go quiet, she remembers the soft peace that had settled over her like a veil. She remembers the relief, the elation, the realization that she could have some kind of control over her curse, now.
She had not deserve to be gifted with magic, but she had been so grateful that she was.
But what she remembers the most is what it had felt like when it was ripped from her. The way she had not noticed the creeping shadows until it was too late, but more important, how the magic seemed eager to abandon her, as if it had only settled for her out of necessity, waiting for someone more worthy to come along. She does not even know where her magic went, or if she would recognize it in whoever holds it now; she isn’t sure if she would want to.
She wants to forget any of it had ever happened, but the ghosts make it nearly impossible to do so. Their voices returned to her mind with new fervor, as if they were annoyed that she had used magic to block them out, and she no longer had the energy to keep them at bay.
Narya did not even realize that she had arrived in the Gates, drifting like a ghost herself. She has never been here, and she does not recognize it for what it is, but she would have known the name; her mother had told her stories, of when her and her father lived here so long ago, back before everything between them unraveled.
All she knows is that she is standing in a meadow, still dusted with snow as winter insists on persevering, and if she tilts her head just slightly there is a stranger in the not so far distance. He is not a ghost, that much she can discern immediately, and she is surprised at the longing that sparks to life in her chest. She had lived in her self-imposed exile for so long that she had forgotten what it was like to speak to someone who is not dead, yet she is still surprised when she realizes she is walking towards him. She has always kept to herself, afraid of being unable to focus on anyone in front of her when the ghosts in her ear won’t quiet, but before she can lose her nerve she is close enough to utter a soft, “hello.”
Narya
— spirits follow everywhere i go,
they sing all day and they haunt me in the night
they sing all day and they haunt me in the night
the first part of this is partially recycled from a starter that was never replied to, i feel obligated to say that lmao
@ Everclear