He is flickering along the edge of a meadow that became their graveyard.
He knows their beginnings, their middles, their ends, and it leaves his eyes dark and cold. He has seen the vivisection. He has seen the lightening. He has seen his sister bound and bled and smiling, and it has ruined him. He is made of sunsets. He is made of rivers. He is made up of hazel trees, and all of the memories that once lingered between the eyelets of the leaves on those branches.
They were earthquakes, and he was a shockwave.
One had a face that could launch a thousand ships, and the other was a dark lyricist. They made music together that wove threads that sounded like the seams that bound the universe. They were everything. He was nothing.
And he is still nothing, flickering along the edge of a meadow that feels like a graveyard when it comes.
It asks for his name, and Elektrum is happy enough to oblige. He turns his golden cheek, and a smirk slithers along the edge of his lips like a snake through the grass.
“I am Elektrum,” he says, neither warmly or cool, and he touches his nose to the other’s cheek. He touches his nose to the other’s cheek and the world dissolves around them. It flashes pieces of here and there, of light and dark, of now and then. What they are left with is a backdrop of olive trees and ancient columns. What they are left with is cobblestone beneath their feet, with emptiness around them that not even the Gods could fill.
“When is your favourite place?”
elektrum
i am and always will be the optimist