Ryatah
— there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you, don't you agree?
It would be hardly a surprise to any that knew her to learn that the dark had stirred her awake. That instead of wanting to hide away she found herself venturing away from Hyaline more often than she had previously, in search of what, she isn’t sure. She just knows that this darkness is heavy—that it breathes and has a pulse, that sometimes she can hear the clicking of its teeth and feels the brush of something solid and unearthly against her.
It makes that wretched heart of hers beat faster, and against all of her better judgment (as if she had such a thing) she once again finds herself walking straight into the blackest parts of it.
She steps along the river, through a darkness so thick even the glow from her ethereal aura is nearly suffocated by it. It chases away most of the closest shadows, though, and she is a nearly unsettling contrast to the black world they have succumbed to—a stark white body surrounded by a halo of light.
When she hears his voice—strangled and muffled though it was—there is a moment where she freezes. Memories of their last meeting come rushing back, and she thinks of how no matter what she does or says she will never be able to mend the rift that existed between them. An uncrossable divide of their own doing that every interaction seemed to push them further apart.
But she, ever the hopeless fool, goes to him anyway, without hesitation. “Ashhal?” his name is murmured into the dark expanse between them even though she knows without a doubt that it is him—despite her wanton ways there were only a few seared so clearly onto that tattered heart of hers that she would know them anywhere, in any darkness. She goes to him even though she knows he is going to push her away, knows that he will snap at her with teeth and words both, and still she does not pause in her approach. The scent of dried blood and the ongoing infection is the only thing that makes her hesitate (he was always angrier when he was hurt), but it does not keep her from asking, “What happened to you?”
It makes that wretched heart of hers beat faster, and against all of her better judgment (as if she had such a thing) she once again finds herself walking straight into the blackest parts of it.
She steps along the river, through a darkness so thick even the glow from her ethereal aura is nearly suffocated by it. It chases away most of the closest shadows, though, and she is a nearly unsettling contrast to the black world they have succumbed to—a stark white body surrounded by a halo of light.
When she hears his voice—strangled and muffled though it was—there is a moment where she freezes. Memories of their last meeting come rushing back, and she thinks of how no matter what she does or says she will never be able to mend the rift that existed between them. An uncrossable divide of their own doing that every interaction seemed to push them further apart.
But she, ever the hopeless fool, goes to him anyway, without hesitation. “Ashhal?” his name is murmured into the dark expanse between them even though she knows without a doubt that it is him—despite her wanton ways there were only a few seared so clearly onto that tattered heart of hers that she would know them anywhere, in any darkness. She goes to him even though she knows he is going to push her away, knows that he will snap at her with teeth and words both, and still she does not pause in her approach. The scent of dried blood and the ongoing infection is the only thing that makes her hesitate (he was always angrier when he was hurt), but it does not keep her from asking, “What happened to you?”
there's something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin —
@[Ashhal]