02-28-2021, 06:58 PM
( THESE DAYS I DON’T PRAY WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES
I JUST BITE MY TONGUE A BIT HARDER )
I JUST BITE MY TONGUE A BIT HARDER )
The angel is weary.
How terribly tired he is of being alone.
He would not dare ask the mother to stray from his sister’s side, not simply to spend time with him. And he would not dare to draw any unnecessary attention to himself either, not in Hyaline.
But this is not Hyaline and this figure in the forest smells only faintly of death, something just removed. As if she has witnessed it but it has not come for her specifically. It is not nipping at her heels and it is not nipping at his either, not presently. For the moment, they are safe.
(Though he can smell it still, in this darkness, he can always smell it.)
He eases a little closer. In that soft glow he can see that she, too, is cast in ice as he is cast in ice. But the ice sprouts from her skin like armor while the ice cuts through him like great blue crevasses.
The heart thumps steadily in the cavern of his chest while he studies her, the blue eyes wide, his mouth open slightly. The angel wants to ask about the death she has witnessed, why he can smell it on her skin, if she really saw it or experienced it in some other way.
“Are you frightened?” he asks instead, his own voice uncertain. There is some eternal tremble in his bones. He is frightened, Selaphiel, always frightened. “Who has died?” he asks then, before he can stop himself. There is so much death. Always so much death.
How terribly tired he is of being alone.
He would not dare ask the mother to stray from his sister’s side, not simply to spend time with him. And he would not dare to draw any unnecessary attention to himself either, not in Hyaline.
But this is not Hyaline and this figure in the forest smells only faintly of death, something just removed. As if she has witnessed it but it has not come for her specifically. It is not nipping at her heels and it is not nipping at his either, not presently. For the moment, they are safe.
(Though he can smell it still, in this darkness, he can always smell it.)
He eases a little closer. In that soft glow he can see that she, too, is cast in ice as he is cast in ice. But the ice sprouts from her skin like armor while the ice cuts through him like great blue crevasses.
The heart thumps steadily in the cavern of his chest while he studies her, the blue eyes wide, his mouth open slightly. The angel wants to ask about the death she has witnessed, why he can smell it on her skin, if she really saw it or experienced it in some other way.
“Are you frightened?” he asks instead, his own voice uncertain. There is some eternal tremble in his bones. He is frightened, Selaphiel, always frightened. “Who has died?” he asks then, before he can stop himself. There is so much death. Always so much death.
Selaphiel
@[keyna]