05-13-2024, 10:45 PM
Ryatah
WHEN I WAS SHIPWRECKED I THOUGHT OF YOU
IN THE CRACKS OF LIGHT I DREAMED OF YOU
She does not know if it is real or imagined, that she can feel him forcing himself into her mind, but she flinches as if it is a physical pain all the same. She doesn’t move away, though, doesn’t do anything to try and keep him out — thinking that maybe if he can see how willingly she still lets him take whatever he wants from her that he will see that she is still the same as she has always been, magic or not. Always a willing victim, ready to play whatever game he has created, to morph herself into the piece he needs her to be.
“I didn’t want you to be mad at me,” she says quietly, aware of how stupidly childish the statement sounds. She knows that she cannot hide anything from him. She knew that this very interaction was inevitable, that the only way to avoid it would have been for him to lose interest in her entirely and for their paths to never again cross. And she knows that if given the choice, she would choose exactly where they are now, because she would rather be wilting beneath his cold stare than to be forgotten like all the rest.
At least with him here in front of her there is a chance of rectifying her wrong, if only she can figure out exactly the way she needs to bleed to earn his forgiveness.
But something in his next statement stings, and she can feel her own jaw clench. Not in anger, but at the ache that swells in her chest, tightening in her throat. You were better, before. That always seems to be the way of it, and she has heard some iteration of it from others. She was always better to them when she was smaller, milder, weaker. She always did something that caused their interest to wane or for them to realize she cannot fit into their idyllic fantasy forever because she is horribly, irrevocably flawed.
It didn’t matter that it wasn’t his magic that he controlled her with; and she thinks he knows that, is sure that he must know by now it’s not in fear of his godhood that she falls before him, is sure that he must know that she worships at an entirely different altar than the rest of this place. It’s why, in her mind, her magic does not matter, because even if everything was stripped away from both of them he would always be the sun to her.
“You didn’t say that when I suddenly became an angel,” she manages, trying to smooth the hurt from her voice, trying to hold his gaze even though hers longs to drop away. She knows she is walking a fragile line, that he is already angered and likely not in the mood for her questioning anything, but the air between them is now fraught with the kind of tension she knew she had no choice but to push against until it snapped. “Why is this so different?”
“I didn’t want you to be mad at me,” she says quietly, aware of how stupidly childish the statement sounds. She knows that she cannot hide anything from him. She knew that this very interaction was inevitable, that the only way to avoid it would have been for him to lose interest in her entirely and for their paths to never again cross. And she knows that if given the choice, she would choose exactly where they are now, because she would rather be wilting beneath his cold stare than to be forgotten like all the rest.
At least with him here in front of her there is a chance of rectifying her wrong, if only she can figure out exactly the way she needs to bleed to earn his forgiveness.
But something in his next statement stings, and she can feel her own jaw clench. Not in anger, but at the ache that swells in her chest, tightening in her throat. You were better, before. That always seems to be the way of it, and she has heard some iteration of it from others. She was always better to them when she was smaller, milder, weaker. She always did something that caused their interest to wane or for them to realize she cannot fit into their idyllic fantasy forever because she is horribly, irrevocably flawed.
It didn’t matter that it wasn’t his magic that he controlled her with; and she thinks he knows that, is sure that he must know by now it’s not in fear of his godhood that she falls before him, is sure that he must know that she worships at an entirely different altar than the rest of this place. It’s why, in her mind, her magic does not matter, because even if everything was stripped away from both of them he would always be the sun to her.
“You didn’t say that when I suddenly became an angel,” she manages, trying to smooth the hurt from her voice, trying to hold his gaze even though hers longs to drop away. She knows she is walking a fragile line, that he is already angered and likely not in the mood for her questioning anything, but the air between them is now fraught with the kind of tension she knew she had no choice but to push against until it snapped. “Why is this so different?”
AND IT WAS REAL ENOUGH TO GET ME THROUGH —
BUT I SWEAR YOU WERE THERE
@Carnage