12-26-2018, 07:26 PM
living for the past
because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
In those foreign, empty lands outside of Beqanna, his face occasionally found her. The haze of Wishbone’s drowsiness had been plagued with the sharp outline of his jawline, the scents of stone and salt, the taste of his scale and sweat. She often woke warm and flustered; her desire for him would drive her to the closest signs of life and spend the next few hours with some average man who did not please her in the half the ways Ivar used to. Wishbone wouldn’t dare speak of any feelings those sleep-soaked memories would dredge up, but each rude awakening would leave a hollow ache in her chest.
In the autumnal lands of Beqanna, pieces have shifted to hide the familiar from her. Wishbone catches mere flashes of what used to be: scents of sulfur and pine and stone, winding trails that seem to be the same but suddenly veer off, people that she might’ve once encountered briefly from before. His face does not appear among those she recognizes, but she catches a whisper of his name alongside the title of a once-Kraken kingdom. The sound of that name (a name she has only heard in her mind for two years) awakens restlessness from its nap of fatigue, for she had worn it out during the thrill of her exploration.
Just as Tephra had called to her on her journey to Nerine, the volcano calls to her on her journey to Ischia. She winds between the lava-streams and tropical greenery with ease, although the fixation of her birth-home to the mainland is frustratingly inaccurate. Wishbone longs to dive into the straits of eastern seawater to reach the volcano, but instead, she finds herself merely crossing the border in order to get elsewhere (in order to get to him).
The drive to see his startling face with her own eyes is the only thing that keeps her on track. Wishbone’s nose never stops searching for the warmth and stars of her father’s scent as she walks, but the slender lap of the sea against her heels reaches her before Warrick ever does. The tide is high, sunset-tinged waves reaching past the pebbled shore to the hardy beach grass. She dives feverishly into the water and her muscles sigh with relief at the familiar routine of pushing her mahogany body toward the next shoreline.
Her movements are smooth and relaxed, rhythmic in their action and practiced with the weight of years of experience. Wishbone reaches the shore as though she were a fish and she pulls herself onto Ischia’s shore as though she were a siren. Long, dark tendrils of mane plaster themselves against the smooth muscle of her neck. A blue sea-stone lies among the entanglement — a gift from a friend who is still a queen — alongside the magenta and teal feather of a lilac-breasted roller from her travels. She is still decorated in the patchwork of scars against her knees, thin slices along her hips and heels and shoulders, and the pair of barely-noticeable pinpricks above the pulse of her jugular.
The flare of the dying sun casts nameless, wild colors upon the mahogany of her slender curves as she moves further up the beach. The drip of seawater from Wishbone’s body leaves a trail of damp sand behind her. If the murmurs from the common lands are true, he will be here shortly. She knows of Ivar’s possession, though it had never tempted her in the way it tempted the young, sweet girls of his harem. Wishbone waits on the shoreline, letting the high tide sweep against her heels as her eyes watch the faint tendrils of smoke curl from the tip of the volcano in the far distance.
In the autumnal lands of Beqanna, pieces have shifted to hide the familiar from her. Wishbone catches mere flashes of what used to be: scents of sulfur and pine and stone, winding trails that seem to be the same but suddenly veer off, people that she might’ve once encountered briefly from before. His face does not appear among those she recognizes, but she catches a whisper of his name alongside the title of a once-Kraken kingdom. The sound of that name (a name she has only heard in her mind for two years) awakens restlessness from its nap of fatigue, for she had worn it out during the thrill of her exploration.
Just as Tephra had called to her on her journey to Nerine, the volcano calls to her on her journey to Ischia. She winds between the lava-streams and tropical greenery with ease, although the fixation of her birth-home to the mainland is frustratingly inaccurate. Wishbone longs to dive into the straits of eastern seawater to reach the volcano, but instead, she finds herself merely crossing the border in order to get elsewhere (in order to get to him).
The drive to see his startling face with her own eyes is the only thing that keeps her on track. Wishbone’s nose never stops searching for the warmth and stars of her father’s scent as she walks, but the slender lap of the sea against her heels reaches her before Warrick ever does. The tide is high, sunset-tinged waves reaching past the pebbled shore to the hardy beach grass. She dives feverishly into the water and her muscles sigh with relief at the familiar routine of pushing her mahogany body toward the next shoreline.
Her movements are smooth and relaxed, rhythmic in their action and practiced with the weight of years of experience. Wishbone reaches the shore as though she were a fish and she pulls herself onto Ischia’s shore as though she were a siren. Long, dark tendrils of mane plaster themselves against the smooth muscle of her neck. A blue sea-stone lies among the entanglement — a gift from a friend who is still a queen — alongside the magenta and teal feather of a lilac-breasted roller from her travels. She is still decorated in the patchwork of scars against her knees, thin slices along her hips and heels and shoulders, and the pair of barely-noticeable pinpricks above the pulse of her jugular.
The flare of the dying sun casts nameless, wild colors upon the mahogany of her slender curves as she moves further up the beach. The drip of seawater from Wishbone’s body leaves a trail of damp sand behind her. If the murmurs from the common lands are true, he will be here shortly. She knows of Ivar’s possession, though it had never tempted her in the way it tempted the young, sweet girls of his harem. Wishbone waits on the shoreline, letting the high tide sweep against her heels as her eyes watch the faint tendrils of smoke curl from the tip of the volcano in the far distance.
@[Ivar]