I need that fire just to know that I'm awake
There is an echo in the breeze, as though it is trying to remind her of things lost to the traces of history. But she cannot quite untangle those faint strains, cannot pick out the notes she should know from the endless whispers. Instead the wind points her in another direction.
Joscelin?
Her name on another’s tongue startles her. She’d been so lost trying to hear non-existent things that she had failed to notice that which stood right in front of her. And as her eyes settle on the silver figure, she is caught in the gleaming beauty of the woman who had uttered her name. Her heart tumbles curiously in her breast, as though it recognizes the one who stands before her. But that cannot be. She is far too lovely for someone like she, with an ethereal grace that speaks of things beyond her knowledge. Why would she have ever had anything to do with a broken thing like her?
“You know me?” she asks, a faint frown tugging at the cracks etching her features. Perhaps the better question was does Joscelin know her? But a part of her is afraid of that answer. Worried that it is not an answer she would care for.
But for all those tumbling question, there is still a visceral tug that draws her closer. Something she would not look too closely at, even if she could have found the answers. Perhaps it is only her wild imaginations, or perhaps it is something more, but she thinks she would greatly wish to know her better.
Not for the first time, she silently curses the memories that still elude her.
She draws slowly nearer, golden eyes wary and wild and wanting, until they are close enough to touch. But she does not reach out (no matter how much she wishes to, if for no other reason to see if she is real). “You’re beautiful,” she finally whispers, an unwitting echo of a lost memory. “Who are you?”
Joscelin
