Jinn
I had a dream that we were dead,
and we pretended that we still lived
and we pretended that we still lived
He doesn’t notice her at first, lost as he is in his own mind. So long it has been his only companion that it is often difficult to remember there are others. To remember that he is not truly alone in the world. The rush of water against is skin is soothing, lulling. He loses himself in it, allowing his mind to dull and numb. Allowing himself to forget, for even just a moment, his own misery.
Given the way his emotions so easily paint the sharp lines of his gaunt features, her assumption is only a fair one.
A sound calls him back to the present. One he cannot quite place, nor does he try particularly hard. Inhaling sharply, he opens eyes that should have been warm gold but instead have faded into the filmy blue of death. He blinks, focusing, gaze shifting as though waking from the confusion of slumber. Finally those deathly eyes fall to the surface of the river, swirling and alive, rushing as though it has somewhere vastly more entertaining to go.
His gaze catches upon the tips of her ears as she rises from the water. The liquid sluices from her, parting easily in the wake of her ascent, revealing a creature of glimmering perfection. Far more beautiful than he could ever hope to be. As a dead thing, he looks far more monster than man. A thing reviled rather than beloved.
She is so fortunate, he thinks. Achingly beautiful and uncursed.
When the slender fingers of water move over him, he flinches. As unused to touch as he is, it is a foreign sensation, even so brief as it is. His skin shivers across sharp bones as the water collapses gently against him, darkening the dull black of his withers.
He stares at her a long moment when she asks him that question, as though confused. Perhaps surprised is more accurate. Finally, he shakes his head faintly. “No.” Then he frowns, gaze shifting to watch the gurgling water. “Maybe,” he amends.
Of course, it would never work. He has become too good at self-preservation. But she did not need to know how pathetically weak he truly is.
Given the way his emotions so easily paint the sharp lines of his gaunt features, her assumption is only a fair one.
A sound calls him back to the present. One he cannot quite place, nor does he try particularly hard. Inhaling sharply, he opens eyes that should have been warm gold but instead have faded into the filmy blue of death. He blinks, focusing, gaze shifting as though waking from the confusion of slumber. Finally those deathly eyes fall to the surface of the river, swirling and alive, rushing as though it has somewhere vastly more entertaining to go.
His gaze catches upon the tips of her ears as she rises from the water. The liquid sluices from her, parting easily in the wake of her ascent, revealing a creature of glimmering perfection. Far more beautiful than he could ever hope to be. As a dead thing, he looks far more monster than man. A thing reviled rather than beloved.
She is so fortunate, he thinks. Achingly beautiful and uncursed.
When the slender fingers of water move over him, he flinches. As unused to touch as he is, it is a foreign sensation, even so brief as it is. His skin shivers across sharp bones as the water collapses gently against him, darkening the dull black of his withers.
He stares at her a long moment when she asks him that question, as though confused. Perhaps surprised is more accurate. Finally, he shakes his head faintly. “No.” Then he frowns, gaze shifting to watch the gurgling water. “Maybe,” he amends.
Of course, it would never work. He has become too good at self-preservation. But she did not need to know how pathetically weak he truly is.
