06-12-2017, 09:53 PM
the night is my companion, and solitude my guide.
She is used to the cold press of night against her skin, how it lacks any kind of warmth as its touch embraces her. The darkness somehow feels empty now as it folds into the curves of her sloping shoulders and hips, merely following the direction of the moonlight to gently flow over her silver-blue coat. The mare reaches out, her pale lips searching fervently, her skin aching with longing. She cannot feel it; not how she used to. The shadows that etch her body are the shadows that fall on any random mortal as they pass through – the shadows no longer know her name, no longer bend to her will. Her eyes, dark and stormy irises growing larger as her pupils decrease to mere pinpricks, grow more and more accustomed to the darkening world.
There is a sound; it is out of place on the still night that enraptures her. She turns and she sees nothing, the rustling of the leaves behind her coming to a rest as her grey eyes watch curiously. The wind that begins to rustle the leaves of the branches above her causes her eyes to rise upwards, the chilled night air bringing a more distinct smell to her flared nostrils. Suddenly, the aroma of damp bark and clear, crisp air was much more intense, a flavor that was almost too discreet to really place.
Her ease within the darkness does not let her mind raise any alarm; instead, as she turns forward, a small gasp leaves her pale and trembling lips. Oh. Fluid and light, a single finger seemingly traces her skin, starting at the soft flesh of her cheek and ending by raising her chin cautiously, as if she was made of porcelain. She remains motionless, fraught not with fear, but in awe. The movement was so familiar to her, recognizable in ways that she could not describe, yet she was not the one who called it to her. The sensation brings her back to distant memories, when her mind would allow the shadows to roam and wander her body in twists and turns, coiling around her like a snake (how accurate). Her eyes rove the darkness around her, skin shivering with anticipation. Had the shadows returned to her?
She dare not move. For a moment, she believes she is imagining it, her mind playing tricks on her in the darkness she hides in so well. However, the cold of the night that now chills the skin where the phantom touch had graced her leads her to believe that it had not been her imagination. She strains her eyes within the shadows – wishing, hoping, needing – wondering if she could feel it again. She nearly opens her mouth to beg, to plead, and to bargain, but suddenly, she doesn’t have to.
Augusta is not frightened as she feels the strong press against her hip and shoulder, exhaling deeply as the sensation meets her skin. She did not realize she had been holding her breath. The feeling then drapes itself over the broad of her slender back, warm and lush against her night-washed skin. She inhales with a staggering breath, her lids fluttering closed as she allows the comfort of the phantom shadow to cover her, to protect her. It touches her again at her neck, with so soft a touch she could nearly fall asleep, and she sighs contently. She is not afraid, but she has never had to be.
She does not jump at the sound of a voice, its warmth burrowing into her ear, a mere whisper into the night. Her eyes do not even open. Instead, her brow furrows with slight confusion, her ivory lips pressing together firmly in thought. She does not move from the shadows (or what she believes are shadows) and its tender embrace, in fear that it will be lost forever.
“That is not the breath of a ghost, my shadow,” she murmurs with certainty, her voice like a chime in the stillness of the dark that surrounds her.
She is alone in her shadows - completely and utterly alone.