"He will inevitably decide that it all fell apart because he had orchestrated it and he will carry the blame like a stone in his chest, too. He will add it to the pile and perhaps, someday when there are enough stones to weigh him down, he will walk into the sea and let them drown him" -- Kensley, written by Savage
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.
The signs of a storm draw Garett out of the forest and into the meadow. Although there is a thrum of fear that courses through his body, it’s at war with his curiosity. The booming thunder of the warm-weather storms are so at odds with his usual peaceful life that they have a tendency to spook him, to cause his kind heart to race. So he usually shelters when they roll around, finding whatever comforts he could.
Today feels different, so he emerges from the woods - bright eyes almost instantly noting a blue girl about his age standing on her own. Suddenly, the storm moves to the back of his mind. He approaches cautiously, equally out of his own uncertainty as his desire not to spook her. Could he spook her? His experiences with interacting with those who aren’t his family are limited, more often the green-pointed boy finds his company in the plants or his twin brother.
But in the face of the oncoming storm, something draws him to this winter-touched stranger. The grass shifts where he walks, the soft blades pulled towards him as if by a magnet and brushing against his skin. Bright green eyes moving from the dark clouds stretching across the sky and then back down to the one he comes to stand near. There’s just a little too much distance between them than might be normal and while his mind frets over this - debating whether he should shift a little closer or if this is fine - he practically blurts out something else, anything else, by way of greeting. “Do you like storms?”
The water sings to Mako like the fire sings to most of her family. The frost she wears upon her hide is prideful and glittering, the mark of the enemy amongst a dragon’s den. Mako would be lying to herself if she thought she didn’t grow up incredibly proud of her supposed infiltration (and she would be lying to herself if she thought her affinities didn’t alienate her).
Like a queen to a people that didn’t accept her, Mako spent her life peering down disdainfully at fire and brimstone.
So when the rain calls, wistful in song but vengeful in grip, Mako turns an open face to the tears she knows the sky sheds just for her. The sound of her frost hissing beneath a pelting thunderstorm makes her heart race. Sometimes, when her mind has gone just quiet enough, she can convince herself it hurts to lose her frost—as if it is as much a part of her as her skin and bone.
Perhaps this is why Mako is not particularly disgruntled when Garett disturbs her meditated waiting. He is green and brown, like an elegant and smooth sapling—so vastly other to the chaotic heat in Loess.
“I love any kind of rain but, yes, I especially love storms.” Mako’s voice does not express the pleasant surprise she feels at being asked such a question, nor does it reveal how much she admires his shadowy brown and foliage green. Those glances to study his colors, fleeting and near-nervous, are quietly hidden by the unphased way Mako carries herself. She is almost robotic, the melodies of her voice covered by a practiced rise and fall.
Fat, heavy droplets begin to plop here and there, occasionally slapping hard against Mako’s scales.
“Do you?” she asks Garett, then flicks her eyes to the gray sky. “I think it’s a little too late, if you don’t.” A tease, but one that falls short on its delivery.
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