02-26-2020, 10:21 AM
Brunhilde would burn until the end of time, if she could. Immortality does not strengthen her bones, though; and, now, she grows older and older. It shows in the somber dimness of her eyes and the lines permanently curved around the ends of her lips. How sweet she once was, delicious to the taste and insufferably irresistible. She had her barbs then, yes, but men sung her name to a yearning moon even as she lashed their backs.
Standing here, before Garbage, Brunhilde is exactly the opposite. She is whipped by thin chains of her own design.
“Garbage,” Brun parrots, the ghost of an intrigued smile on her face. She doesn’t question him like she once would, nor does she laugh. The strange names and faces of Beqanna tend to grow on an individual, the sunset mare not immune to such an effect. She thinks he looks like the kind of abused that suits the named Garbage, such thoughts she keeps tucked quietly in the back of her mind.
For now, she is content to commiserate.
Sunset, he says, and Brun’s heart begins to thump wildly in her chest. Bub? she thinks, gemstone eyes flicking out and beyond the surroundings behind Garbage. Little sunset, her abuser hisses in her ear. It takes every bit of her self control to keep her reaction to a panicked flicking of ears.
“Sunset,” Brunhilde echoes, eyes glazing for the one second she pictures Beelzebub’s face. She quickly comes back to reality, settling an only slightly uncomfortable gaze back on Garbage. A butterfly lands gently between her ears as a weak smile turns her mouth.
“Yes, unfortunately, I am real. But not a real sunset,” she murmurs as her weak smile turns into a rueful one, and then turns into nothing. “Who named you Garbage?” She shouldn’t ask, maybe—and she hadn’t planned to, but that sliver of upset leaves her desperate to turn the attention away from herself.
Standing here, before Garbage, Brunhilde is exactly the opposite. She is whipped by thin chains of her own design.
“Garbage,” Brun parrots, the ghost of an intrigued smile on her face. She doesn’t question him like she once would, nor does she laugh. The strange names and faces of Beqanna tend to grow on an individual, the sunset mare not immune to such an effect. She thinks he looks like the kind of abused that suits the named Garbage, such thoughts she keeps tucked quietly in the back of her mind.
For now, she is content to commiserate.
Sunset, he says, and Brun’s heart begins to thump wildly in her chest. Bub? she thinks, gemstone eyes flicking out and beyond the surroundings behind Garbage. Little sunset, her abuser hisses in her ear. It takes every bit of her self control to keep her reaction to a panicked flicking of ears.
“Sunset,” Brunhilde echoes, eyes glazing for the one second she pictures Beelzebub’s face. She quickly comes back to reality, settling an only slightly uncomfortable gaze back on Garbage. A butterfly lands gently between her ears as a weak smile turns her mouth.
“Yes, unfortunately, I am real. But not a real sunset,” she murmurs as her weak smile turns into a rueful one, and then turns into nothing. “Who named you Garbage?” She shouldn’t ask, maybe—and she hadn’t planned to, but that sliver of upset leaves her desperate to turn the attention away from herself.
@[garbage]
