03-26-2020, 11:00 PM
In the end, all that had really mattered was her ability to survive.
Mako’s sense of otherness alienated her from even her siblings. She felt especially scorned by her family, a withered scar she wears proudly upon her chest. I’m fine, she had told herself when it (that cold, biting wind of loneliness) first started. Mako was barely old enough to understand the way she froze even when the sun beat lovingly down on her, but it covered her child’s heart with vines of poison ivy.
No matter how many times she scratched that itch with words of affirmation, it never subsided.
She had turned into a beautiful thing, little Mako. From long, pale, spindly legs into a swirl of silver and blue. She wears her mother’s colors like a crown, the proud visage of the blood of dragons. Mother’s dead, she spits at herself when her ego grows too overblown.
And no crown, no kiss, no embrace of family will change that.
Castile wasn’t a bad caretaker, and Loess wasn’t a bad home. In fact, Mako felt the most comfortable there, for chaos and ambition suits her. Castile taught her enough of the dragon scales glittering on her skin, taught her enough of power and drive. They had mourned together: Castile, the death of a daughter—and Mako, the death of a mother. Instead of bringing Mako closer into her family, it brought her farther—this grief she thinks is so much more special, so much more intense than the rest of them.
And so she wanders now, a glittering beast amongst the vibrant splashes of wildflowers. Her head tilts higher and higher and higher, until her chin can no longer move and her eyes are blinded by what is left of golden sun. Thunder cracks in the storm clouds racing to cover the warmth that will never keep her close, and Mako rolls her shoulders to settle into what will surely be a cleansing storm.
Mako’s sense of otherness alienated her from even her siblings. She felt especially scorned by her family, a withered scar she wears proudly upon her chest. I’m fine, she had told herself when it (that cold, biting wind of loneliness) first started. Mako was barely old enough to understand the way she froze even when the sun beat lovingly down on her, but it covered her child’s heart with vines of poison ivy.
No matter how many times she scratched that itch with words of affirmation, it never subsided.
She had turned into a beautiful thing, little Mako. From long, pale, spindly legs into a swirl of silver and blue. She wears her mother’s colors like a crown, the proud visage of the blood of dragons. Mother’s dead, she spits at herself when her ego grows too overblown.
And no crown, no kiss, no embrace of family will change that.
Castile wasn’t a bad caretaker, and Loess wasn’t a bad home. In fact, Mako felt the most comfortable there, for chaos and ambition suits her. Castile taught her enough of the dragon scales glittering on her skin, taught her enough of power and drive. They had mourned together: Castile, the death of a daughter—and Mako, the death of a mother. Instead of bringing Mako closer into her family, it brought her farther—this grief she thinks is so much more special, so much more intense than the rest of them.
And so she wanders now, a glittering beast amongst the vibrant splashes of wildflowers. Her head tilts higher and higher and higher, until her chin can no longer move and her eyes are blinded by what is left of golden sun. Thunder cracks in the storm clouds racing to cover the warmth that will never keep her close, and Mako rolls her shoulders to settle into what will surely be a cleansing storm.