03-07-2021, 01:57 PM
<center><div style="width:500px; padding:20px;font-family:times;font-size:12px;line-height:14px;background:#F5F5F5;color:#000000;text-align:justify;border:1px solid #000000;"><I><b>what have I done, with my heart on the floor,
I must be out of my mind to come back begging for more -- </i></b>
She forgets, for a moment, why she is here. She forgets that they are suspended in nightfall, forgets that she has a daughter back home that is dying, because she cannot see beyond the dying son in front of her. Firion hardly stirs at her touch, and if not for the way he so briefly leans into her she would have thought he wasn’t aware that she was there at all.
There is so little of her heart left intact enough to break, but somehow it finds a way.
Her healing begins to warm beneath her skin, longing to reach for him. But she thinks of Este—thinks of how no matter how many times she has wrapped her in that same golden touch, it was useless. Este needs sunlight; no amount of healing or magic was saving her. Looking at the bone that breaks through rotted flesh and the skin that clings so tightly to his skeletal frame, she doesn’t think her healing will help him either.
It’s only the fairies that draw her back to the present, back to this grim reality. There are two of them, and their fatigue is nearly palpable. It reminds her—and she so often needs to be reminded of this—that everyone else is suffering, and not just her own family. Though she steals a glance at Firion again, her attention is on what the fairy is saying. She feels a twist of pity in her gut at the description of the creatures, but she fights it down. Her sympathy and curiosity for darkness always got her into some kind of trouble, and she doesn’t think now is the time for it.
At the mention of the afterlife, though, her attention sharpens.
She does not know the entities, but she knows the afterlife—knows Gail.
There is heat rising beneath her skin again, but it is not the urge to heal. It’s that same incessant humming that pushes her into danger, a vibration in her veins that never settles until it finds its release.
She hears Firion offer himself as a distraction, but he sounds so incredibly far away now.
“Rescue,” she says in that quiet, but sure way of hers, her impossibly dark eyes focused on the fairy that had offered to lead them to the afterlife. She has died before—she would argue that she has died more than anyone here, but she does not tell them that. She has never been one to speak of the things she can endure, the things she has seen. But she can show them.
<p align=right><b>-- ryatah.</b></font></div></center>
I must be out of my mind to come back begging for more -- </i></b>
She forgets, for a moment, why she is here. She forgets that they are suspended in nightfall, forgets that she has a daughter back home that is dying, because she cannot see beyond the dying son in front of her. Firion hardly stirs at her touch, and if not for the way he so briefly leans into her she would have thought he wasn’t aware that she was there at all.
There is so little of her heart left intact enough to break, but somehow it finds a way.
Her healing begins to warm beneath her skin, longing to reach for him. But she thinks of Este—thinks of how no matter how many times she has wrapped her in that same golden touch, it was useless. Este needs sunlight; no amount of healing or magic was saving her. Looking at the bone that breaks through rotted flesh and the skin that clings so tightly to his skeletal frame, she doesn’t think her healing will help him either.
It’s only the fairies that draw her back to the present, back to this grim reality. There are two of them, and their fatigue is nearly palpable. It reminds her—and she so often needs to be reminded of this—that everyone else is suffering, and not just her own family. Though she steals a glance at Firion again, her attention is on what the fairy is saying. She feels a twist of pity in her gut at the description of the creatures, but she fights it down. Her sympathy and curiosity for darkness always got her into some kind of trouble, and she doesn’t think now is the time for it.
At the mention of the afterlife, though, her attention sharpens.
She does not know the entities, but she knows the afterlife—knows Gail.
There is heat rising beneath her skin again, but it is not the urge to heal. It’s that same incessant humming that pushes her into danger, a vibration in her veins that never settles until it finds its release.
She hears Firion offer himself as a distraction, but he sounds so incredibly far away now.
“Rescue,” she says in that quiet, but sure way of hers, her impossibly dark eyes focused on the fairy that had offered to lead them to the afterlife. She has died before—she would argue that she has died more than anyone here, but she does not tell them that. She has never been one to speak of the things she can endure, the things she has seen. But she can show them.
<p align=right><b>-- ryatah.</b></font></div></center>