10-22-2021, 09:44 PM
She had wondered.
She had wondered.
She had wondered.
“Are the flowers as beautiful as they said they would be?” He asked her once. She wishes sometimes, she had known then, that he was her father. She wonders if the world will ever change. No matter how many times she tries to blink back the thought and cover herself under the light of a full moon and fireflies, but it always finds her again like a sickness. It makes her head throb and her nose bleed.
She is not a ghost, as much as she sometimes feels like one — and reflecting on the ghosts in her lives has never brought her peace. So she forces the smile on her lips to persist, even if her eyes turn a little glassy, even if her heart is starting to ache.
She wonders still.
The wondering is what brings her back to Nerine. It's what makes her linger by the small garden. Wonder lives in the blaze of her too blue eyes
There is a song to the garden, notes twisted between the lights and the last-pollen motes of the season. It rings in her ears like the black-white sea, like monsters snarling in gemstone caves and harpies giving out coins for a memory. She can hear the notes of it, hear the softness, the way it's begging for there to be beauty in the shattering on the veil.
There is a holiness, in the religion of the song.
Were you hoping to find me here frozen to death, little bird?
There are a million things she knows and a million others she does not. And none, none of them, prepared her for the way her heart turns almost fragile when it stumbles into his own.“Reave?” She calls in those same laughing poems of songbird wings, and despite herself she’s already beginning to smile.
It falters only when she sees him and what has happened to him.
A story trickles at her lips like a hummingbird with the hunger of wasp. Of a girl with hair the color of moonlight, with shadows in her blood, and embers clinging to her heart. A girl who would burn part of the world just to save the other half of it.
“You’ll be okay,” she whispers. And thinks, how her hair is colored like moonlight, with shadows swimming in her blood, and those embers growing hotter to flame the garden in her chest. How she is full of bitterness and just enough love to push the hate out instead of in. (“I will give you a rose instead of a heart.” Danae told her, promised her.) “Reave, let me heal you,” she says and presses either a kiss or a secret into the crease of his shoulder.
She had wondered.
She had wondered.
“Are the flowers as beautiful as they said they would be?” He asked her once. She wishes sometimes, she had known then, that he was her father. She wonders if the world will ever change. No matter how many times she tries to blink back the thought and cover herself under the light of a full moon and fireflies, but it always finds her again like a sickness. It makes her head throb and her nose bleed.
She is not a ghost, as much as she sometimes feels like one — and reflecting on the ghosts in her lives has never brought her peace. So she forces the smile on her lips to persist, even if her eyes turn a little glassy, even if her heart is starting to ache.
She wonders still.
The wondering is what brings her back to Nerine. It's what makes her linger by the small garden. Wonder lives in the blaze of her too blue eyes
There is a song to the garden, notes twisted between the lights and the last-pollen motes of the season. It rings in her ears like the black-white sea, like monsters snarling in gemstone caves and harpies giving out coins for a memory. She can hear the notes of it, hear the softness, the way it's begging for there to be beauty in the shattering on the veil.
There is a holiness, in the religion of the song.
Were you hoping to find me here frozen to death, little bird?
There are a million things she knows and a million others she does not. And none, none of them, prepared her for the way her heart turns almost fragile when it stumbles into his own.“Reave?” She calls in those same laughing poems of songbird wings, and despite herself she’s already beginning to smile.
It falters only when she sees him and what has happened to him.
A story trickles at her lips like a hummingbird with the hunger of wasp. Of a girl with hair the color of moonlight, with shadows in her blood, and embers clinging to her heart. A girl who would burn part of the world just to save the other half of it.
“You’ll be okay,” she whispers. And thinks, how her hair is colored like moonlight, with shadows swimming in her blood, and those embers growing hotter to flame the garden in her chest. How she is full of bitterness and just enough love to push the hate out instead of in. (“I will give you a rose instead of a heart.” Danae told her, promised her.) “Reave, let me heal you,” she says and presses either a kiss or a secret into the crease of his shoulder.