02-18-2024, 11:38 PM
Ryatah
WHEN I WAS SHIPWRECKED I THOUGHT OF YOU
IN THE CRACKS OF LIGHT I DREAMED OF YOU
It is always strange to meet someone that drags her back in time.
Most of her life feels as if it is always hurtling forward — another change, another heartbreak, another love, another disaster. She has never been the type to look back, always perhaps a little too eager to leave the past behind her. It’s why she can love someone new without any reservations; it’s why she can launch headfirst into danger without thinking about what happened the last time she did that. She moves on before the wound is even healed, but she never loses the scars.
She doesn’t fully remember why she had gone to the beach that day; maybe her heart had been broken, or maybe life had felt impossibly heavy and empty and too long. She’s always had a bad habit of seeking relief from stagnation in violent ways, and she is sure that day hadn’t been any different.
“The immortality that you have,” she begins, just as she reaches into him to ever so gently pull at it, a curious look shadowing her face. She forgets sometimes what she can do with magic; that she can feel that golden thread of life, and for a moment she marvels at the fact that she could take it back if she wanted. She can feel the way it hums and shifts in response to her, and she is so unaccustomed to having control over anything at all that she can feel an alien greediness flare to life inside of her.
But the feeling passes and she releases her hold on it, letting it settle back into his veins and her nearly-black eyes are once again soft as they meet his storm-gray own. “It used to be mine. Something strange happened that day, and when I died it found you.” She thinks back to that dark, peculiar feeling from just moments before, and as if in reminder to herself she reassures him, “It’s yours, now. It was a gift to me—” she thinks of Moselle, the queen of the Dale that Carnage had unseated in the name of the Valley, and how she had granted immortality to her as a promise of protection for the kingdom “—and now I suppose a gift from me to you.”
Her gaze unknowingly drifts to the crown of thorns that dig into his skin, down to the golden tears that carve paths across his cheeks. She does not even realize when she is reaching out to brush her porcelain-white muzzle across his cheek, smearing the bloodied gold across both their skin as she asks, “were these a gift, too?” because she knows all too well that not all gifts are kind.
Most of her life feels as if it is always hurtling forward — another change, another heartbreak, another love, another disaster. She has never been the type to look back, always perhaps a little too eager to leave the past behind her. It’s why she can love someone new without any reservations; it’s why she can launch headfirst into danger without thinking about what happened the last time she did that. She moves on before the wound is even healed, but she never loses the scars.
She doesn’t fully remember why she had gone to the beach that day; maybe her heart had been broken, or maybe life had felt impossibly heavy and empty and too long. She’s always had a bad habit of seeking relief from stagnation in violent ways, and she is sure that day hadn’t been any different.
“The immortality that you have,” she begins, just as she reaches into him to ever so gently pull at it, a curious look shadowing her face. She forgets sometimes what she can do with magic; that she can feel that golden thread of life, and for a moment she marvels at the fact that she could take it back if she wanted. She can feel the way it hums and shifts in response to her, and she is so unaccustomed to having control over anything at all that she can feel an alien greediness flare to life inside of her.
But the feeling passes and she releases her hold on it, letting it settle back into his veins and her nearly-black eyes are once again soft as they meet his storm-gray own. “It used to be mine. Something strange happened that day, and when I died it found you.” She thinks back to that dark, peculiar feeling from just moments before, and as if in reminder to herself she reassures him, “It’s yours, now. It was a gift to me—” she thinks of Moselle, the queen of the Dale that Carnage had unseated in the name of the Valley, and how she had granted immortality to her as a promise of protection for the kingdom “—and now I suppose a gift from me to you.”
Her gaze unknowingly drifts to the crown of thorns that dig into his skin, down to the golden tears that carve paths across his cheeks. She does not even realize when she is reaching out to brush her porcelain-white muzzle across his cheek, smearing the bloodied gold across both their skin as she asks, “were these a gift, too?” because she knows all too well that not all gifts are kind.
AND IT WAS REAL ENOUGH TO GET ME THROUGH —
BUT I SWEAR YOU WERE THERE