05-06-2015, 04:39 PM
Those strings are now mere cobwebs, easily displaced by the winds of time. Her lover is dead. His lover has forsaken him. Some might find it a cosmic conspiracy against the two, but Yael is no stranger to fate. Fate burned her past and brought her here; the irony of the heat of the Desert is not lost on her. Nor is the coincidence of whatever situation brought him to her proverbial feet. When all is said and done, the ones that are left must soldier on and seek others that are left.
Sometimes Fate is cruel. Sometimes Fate is kind. Sometimes Fate doesn’t give a flying fuck.
He says we all are aren’t we?, and the golden woman must pause to think. Is Yael lost? Does she wander like the twelve tribes, seeking salvation in a Desert from a God that turns a blind eye? She knows exactly where she is and what she is supposed to do. She has responsibility and a family and a kingdom to watch over. She couldn’t possibly be… lost. And yet somehow he knows, with his worn eyes and sutured wounds, with his heartscar tissue and his drowned lungs; like calls to like.
He can’t hide from her. Not many can.
Does she want to hide from him?
The walls were built ages ago. But perhaps - perhaps she can carve herself a peephole and put a candle in the opening. Perhaps one day that peephole will give way to a window, and a window to a door. Perhaps one day she will step through it again; but that day is not today. A candle, perhaps, is enough.
“She ees not xere,” she says. She never will be - she will always be one step ahead or one behind, but never where he’s searching. Her scent will linger and he may imagine her shadow just around the corner, but the truth they both know is that he will never kiss her again. That plague that eats at him is just enough to keep him writhing, yet alive.
“But you ahr velcome to stay for avile. Barrett.”
She knows. He should know that she knows.
Sometimes Fate is cruel. Sometimes Fate is kind. Sometimes Fate doesn’t give a flying fuck.
He says we all are aren’t we?, and the golden woman must pause to think. Is Yael lost? Does she wander like the twelve tribes, seeking salvation in a Desert from a God that turns a blind eye? She knows exactly where she is and what she is supposed to do. She has responsibility and a family and a kingdom to watch over. She couldn’t possibly be… lost. And yet somehow he knows, with his worn eyes and sutured wounds, with his heartscar tissue and his drowned lungs; like calls to like.
He can’t hide from her. Not many can.
Does she want to hide from him?
The walls were built ages ago. But perhaps - perhaps she can carve herself a peephole and put a candle in the opening. Perhaps one day that peephole will give way to a window, and a window to a door. Perhaps one day she will step through it again; but that day is not today. A candle, perhaps, is enough.
“She ees not xere,” she says. She never will be - she will always be one step ahead or one behind, but never where he’s searching. Her scent will linger and he may imagine her shadow just around the corner, but the truth they both know is that he will never kiss her again. That plague that eats at him is just enough to keep him writhing, yet alive.
“But you ahr velcome to stay for avile. Barrett.”
She knows. He should know that she knows.
Yael, guardian of the desert