02-15-2021, 01:40 AM
i've been sleeping so long in a twenty-year dark night
and now i see daylight
and now i see daylight
She is alone, and she hates it, and yet she does nothing to fix it.
She misses the sun, and she is afraid of the things that lurk in the dark, but she is more afraid of burdening anyone with her presence. They will notice the way she sometimes seems to be worlds away, the way she seems to see and hear things that they don’t, and she still has not learned how to live with this. She is terrible company; despondent and lost, and so wrapped up in her own mind that little manages to draw her out.
She thought about finding her parents, but she talks herself out of that too. She does not want to impose on Anonya’s new family; does not want to be a complication that dampens what little happiness her mother can find. And Plume—she knows that he would break to know that she felt so adrift, that the heaviness that anchored her was not something he could lift.
She is young, but she is learning the art of shouldering things alone, and it’s why when he finds her she nearly flees.
There is a jump to her muscles, but instead of running she finds herself whirling to face him with a breath stuck in her throat. No words come to her, her tongue confused and heavy, but inwardly she notices that the way he had startled her had chased away all the ghosts, too. Her mind is silent and the wavering shapes in the shadows are gone, and she feels the strangest wave of relief.
“I like being alone,” she answers him in the soft lilt of her voice, a tone so quiet it seems to rest on top of the shadows rather than sink into them. She does not see him slice his shoulder open; just sees the orb of light that he manifests into the air. The glow of it casts her face into light and shadow, the red rubies glinting in the dark, and then the remnants of blood on his shoulder. She doesn’t make the connection of course — between his blood and the magic — and so concern flickers in her eyes involuntarily. “You’re bleeding,” she comments tentatively, realizing that he likely knows, but also feeling like she would come across as rude if she did not at least take notice of it.
She watches him with large, doe-like eyes, with muscles still pulled taut and suspicion lining her face. “I’m Narya,” she offers him with a cautious kind of hope, thinking that maybe if she gives herself a name he would be less likely to hurt her.
She misses the sun, and she is afraid of the things that lurk in the dark, but she is more afraid of burdening anyone with her presence. They will notice the way she sometimes seems to be worlds away, the way she seems to see and hear things that they don’t, and she still has not learned how to live with this. She is terrible company; despondent and lost, and so wrapped up in her own mind that little manages to draw her out.
She thought about finding her parents, but she talks herself out of that too. She does not want to impose on Anonya’s new family; does not want to be a complication that dampens what little happiness her mother can find. And Plume—she knows that he would break to know that she felt so adrift, that the heaviness that anchored her was not something he could lift.
She is young, but she is learning the art of shouldering things alone, and it’s why when he finds her she nearly flees.
There is a jump to her muscles, but instead of running she finds herself whirling to face him with a breath stuck in her throat. No words come to her, her tongue confused and heavy, but inwardly she notices that the way he had startled her had chased away all the ghosts, too. Her mind is silent and the wavering shapes in the shadows are gone, and she feels the strangest wave of relief.
“I like being alone,” she answers him in the soft lilt of her voice, a tone so quiet it seems to rest on top of the shadows rather than sink into them. She does not see him slice his shoulder open; just sees the orb of light that he manifests into the air. The glow of it casts her face into light and shadow, the red rubies glinting in the dark, and then the remnants of blood on his shoulder. She doesn’t make the connection of course — between his blood and the magic — and so concern flickers in her eyes involuntarily. “You’re bleeding,” she comments tentatively, realizing that he likely knows, but also feeling like she would come across as rude if she did not at least take notice of it.
She watches him with large, doe-like eyes, with muscles still pulled taut and suspicion lining her face. “I’m Narya,” she offers him with a cautious kind of hope, thinking that maybe if she gives herself a name he would be less likely to hurt her.
narya
