02-22-2016, 10:59 PM
trapped inside this twisted circle, it ain't right but it's eternal
Capture has never seen the sky. She does not know the way that splash of endless blue was bright enough to make a heart ache with longing for more, always more. She does not know the glowing moon and its cold, silver stars, and the sun is a friend only by the heat beating on her back. When she lifts her face she cannot trace the flight of birds or feel a strange sense of yearning at how they wing across the blue. Even the brilliance of autumn is wasted on her pale, sightless eyes.
The only things she can love are the things she touch, objects shaped beneath the curve of her nose or by the molecules of her water. She loves the fog and the rain, things that lived close enough to be buried by the spray of ocean water carried in the wind. Things she could imagine more easily by tracing the outline of moisture and the absence beneath. It was why she rarely left the sea, why the only one she knew was Kirin and his kindness. The few times she had strayed from the water had been clumsy expeditions rewarded with bruises and cuts carved into her knees as she struggled to keep her footing on unfamiliar ground that shifted beneath her.
Her place in the bend of beach beside the lapping waves had always been quiet but for ocean sounds, so when the cluster of small voices finds her in the wind she hesitates. She had taken to the quiet, to empty isolation that had seemed to search her out. But there was something about the pitch of young voices, voice like her own, that tugged at some desperate strand of hope in her chest. A friend, just one friend, would be so nice.
She totters forward uncertainly, those pale blue eyes drifting back and forth in what must’ve been an instinct even the blind could not resist. Twice she falls and she is sure she can smell the metallic tang of blood from her spindly knees but she is too afraid to slow down and trace the stones with water, too afraid they’ll leave before she has a chance to reach them. And then the small voices reach a crescendo and she does pause to reach out to them with a thin mist of her own making to cloak them. Three shapes carve themselves out of the black nothingness, one like Kirin with wings aloft and two others without. She wonders for a moment what they must look like, what the pitch of these voices call home. She wonders too what she must look like, for she has never seen the steel grey and emerald of her impossibly fragile body.
Suddenly she is uncertain, her legs frozen in the sand several yards away from them. In her chest her heart beats frantically, both willing her forward and away. Stay, go. She shrinks passively and pulls the mist back from them with a soft, tremulous breath. It gathers around her instead, thickening until it must look like she was standing in the midst of heavy raindrops frozen in time. And then in a small, bell-like voice she offers to the one who had claimed to be kidnapped, “My mother thought I was dead. She even buried me.”
It wasn’t until silence greeted her that she could hear the dismayed groan of her conscience reminding her that her name would have sufficed. So then, belatedly, “They call me Capture.”
CAPTURE
The only things she can love are the things she touch, objects shaped beneath the curve of her nose or by the molecules of her water. She loves the fog and the rain, things that lived close enough to be buried by the spray of ocean water carried in the wind. Things she could imagine more easily by tracing the outline of moisture and the absence beneath. It was why she rarely left the sea, why the only one she knew was Kirin and his kindness. The few times she had strayed from the water had been clumsy expeditions rewarded with bruises and cuts carved into her knees as she struggled to keep her footing on unfamiliar ground that shifted beneath her.
Her place in the bend of beach beside the lapping waves had always been quiet but for ocean sounds, so when the cluster of small voices finds her in the wind she hesitates. She had taken to the quiet, to empty isolation that had seemed to search her out. But there was something about the pitch of young voices, voice like her own, that tugged at some desperate strand of hope in her chest. A friend, just one friend, would be so nice.
She totters forward uncertainly, those pale blue eyes drifting back and forth in what must’ve been an instinct even the blind could not resist. Twice she falls and she is sure she can smell the metallic tang of blood from her spindly knees but she is too afraid to slow down and trace the stones with water, too afraid they’ll leave before she has a chance to reach them. And then the small voices reach a crescendo and she does pause to reach out to them with a thin mist of her own making to cloak them. Three shapes carve themselves out of the black nothingness, one like Kirin with wings aloft and two others without. She wonders for a moment what they must look like, what the pitch of these voices call home. She wonders too what she must look like, for she has never seen the steel grey and emerald of her impossibly fragile body.
Suddenly she is uncertain, her legs frozen in the sand several yards away from them. In her chest her heart beats frantically, both willing her forward and away. Stay, go. She shrinks passively and pulls the mist back from them with a soft, tremulous breath. It gathers around her instead, thickening until it must look like she was standing in the midst of heavy raindrops frozen in time. And then in a small, bell-like voice she offers to the one who had claimed to be kidnapped, “My mother thought I was dead. She even buried me.”
It wasn’t until silence greeted her that she could hear the dismayed groan of her conscience reminding her that her name would have sufficed. So then, belatedly, “They call me Capture.”
azriel x swift