08-22-2021, 04:21 PM
she looks like sleep to the freezing
The flurries edge toward a storm.
The flakes do not dissolve when they land at their feet but begin to collect.
Soon they will be up to their ankles in snow.
This is not her doing. She has not asked the clouds for this, but when she looks at him she sees no obvious signs of concentration. He is not of the winter, not like she is, and it is obvious that she has stumbled upon a magician. A true magician.
A magician like her mother.
(And there is some small thrill in the deep blue heart to think it, to remember her mother, but she is a glacial thing and she is not made of softness. She is made of ice, there is no room in her breast for warmth. But there is always fondness for her family. Always.)
She is a proud thing, Camellia, and if it were not for her deep love for the snow she might have commanded it to stop completely. Because she believes that it belongs to her as much as she belongs to it and it is hers alone to control. But he is a true magician, she thinks, just as her mother is a true magician and she loves the snow too fondly to will it to stop falling.
So they stand there in the beginnings of their own blizzard and he tells her that he has traveled a long way, which can mean a great many things when a magician says it. She nods but does not immediately ask him to elaborate, just accepts his answer for what it is in that moment: the truth and nothing more.
And when he turns the question on her, she rolls an icy shoulder. “Only as far as the Isle this time.”
She turns her head then to look at him fully, training both vibrant blue eyes on him when she asks.
“Have you come from this world or the next, magician?”
The flakes do not dissolve when they land at their feet but begin to collect.
Soon they will be up to their ankles in snow.
This is not her doing. She has not asked the clouds for this, but when she looks at him she sees no obvious signs of concentration. He is not of the winter, not like she is, and it is obvious that she has stumbled upon a magician. A true magician.
A magician like her mother.
(And there is some small thrill in the deep blue heart to think it, to remember her mother, but she is a glacial thing and she is not made of softness. She is made of ice, there is no room in her breast for warmth. But there is always fondness for her family. Always.)
She is a proud thing, Camellia, and if it were not for her deep love for the snow she might have commanded it to stop completely. Because she believes that it belongs to her as much as she belongs to it and it is hers alone to control. But he is a true magician, she thinks, just as her mother is a true magician and she loves the snow too fondly to will it to stop falling.
So they stand there in the beginnings of their own blizzard and he tells her that he has traveled a long way, which can mean a great many things when a magician says it. She nods but does not immediately ask him to elaborate, just accepts his answer for what it is in that moment: the truth and nothing more.
And when he turns the question on her, she rolls an icy shoulder. “Only as far as the Isle this time.”
She turns her head then to look at him fully, training both vibrant blue eyes on him when she asks.
“Have you come from this world or the next, magician?”
camellia
@firion