08-30-2021, 01:31 PM
These are her faults:
pride—for when he had moved to manipulate her winter, her first impulse had been to call an end to it altogether, because she felt the cold and all that came with it belonged to her alone and how dare he think he should be able to command it as she did.
(In the end, of course, her love for the terrible storm had won out and she had merely leaned into it instead. Because she would rather let a magician tamper with the magic than be without it.)
envy—for when he is there one moment and gone the next, the first feeling that seeps into her cold heart is jealousy because she knows that he has become the storm, that he has dissolved into the wind and the snow and the cold and how she longs to become these things, too.
He who is not him but the wind and the snow and the cold spirals upward to murmur in her ear about the dichotomy of being alone without really being alone at all and she closes those glacial blue eyes and, for a moment, simply exists. Alone and not alone.
He had been as alone as she is now, which is to say that he had not been alone at all but his companion had not been a companion at all but an idea.
She draws in a long, cold breath and opens her eyes, searches the surrounding winter and finally smiles.
“And which do you prefer, magician?” she asks the storm, head tilted, “a companion of flesh and blood or the wind?”
pride—for when he had moved to manipulate her winter, her first impulse had been to call an end to it altogether, because she felt the cold and all that came with it belonged to her alone and how dare he think he should be able to command it as she did.
(In the end, of course, her love for the terrible storm had won out and she had merely leaned into it instead. Because she would rather let a magician tamper with the magic than be without it.)
envy—for when he is there one moment and gone the next, the first feeling that seeps into her cold heart is jealousy because she knows that he has become the storm, that he has dissolved into the wind and the snow and the cold and how she longs to become these things, too.
He who is not him but the wind and the snow and the cold spirals upward to murmur in her ear about the dichotomy of being alone without really being alone at all and she closes those glacial blue eyes and, for a moment, simply exists. Alone and not alone.
He had been as alone as she is now, which is to say that he had not been alone at all but his companion had not been a companion at all but an idea.
She draws in a long, cold breath and opens her eyes, searches the surrounding winter and finally smiles.
“And which do you prefer, magician?” she asks the storm, head tilted, “a companion of flesh and blood or the wind?”
@firion