our demons are all around us and they don't come from hell
every single one of them reminds us of ourselves
every single one of them reminds us of ourselves
Brunhild doesn’t know what she is without the comfort of the jungle and the vines.
She is Rodrik’s, she knows that to her core, but is it enough? Is she enough? She feels like the pieces of her have been flung far and wide and the heart of her now rests wherever Beqanna has laid the lands of old to rest. She floats along now, as insubstantial as her body when it floated along the shadows. She feels fuzzy on the edges, lost—the whole of this world taking on a fuzzy, dreamlike quality.
She returns to Beqanna, although it feels as if in a dream.
She walks along the lands she doesn’t recognize and pays no mind to their borders. She has been born and raised in kingdoms, taught their rules since the first breath of air, but she can’t be bothered to adhere to them today. She is a relic, she thinks. A totem of a time long past. What should those alive today care about a ghost passing through the borders? Why should they care about an Amazonian Queen of old?
Her wanderings take her far, her scarred body moving quietly until she reaches the forest, the shadows of it bringing an exhale to her lips. But it is the next sight that clenches her heart in her chest.
At the familiar shape of Scorch, Brunhild’s breath catches in her throat, something like adrenaline slamming into her chest. It feels like home. It feels like a memory. It feels like a breath of life as it slips across her lips. She moves forward in a daze, her heavy-lidded eyes dark and bruised, the shadows playing along the harsh edges of her face. “Scorch,” her throaty voice wraps around the syllable, lets it rest there as she draws up to her side, feeling the space between them. “It’s been so long.”
@[Scorch]