09-19-2019, 01:33 PM
One.
Two.
Three.
Malca lets the water fill her lungs until she isn’t empty anymore. It takes time, she knows, because she is so hollow these days, but she doesn’t mind. The water over her head drowns out the noise of everything else; the noise of him, too. It drowns the static. It drowns the loneliness. It drowns the impossibility of the paradise-like prison he has built for her, with its lilac skies and velvet purple water. It doesn’t drown her. Here the sea is her salvation, and you can watch her as she ebbs and flows with the tide while her tangle of black hair mingles delicately between the sea-foam and white-capped ocean waves.
She will never look so peaceful as here, the one plane of all existences where he will not follow.
She is no stranger to other worlds, even if she cannot quite remember.
There are a lot of things that Malca can’t remember.
For example, she doesn’t remember that she chose him, too. That somewhere, far, far away, where the ends of worlds came together and souls would choose souls, where she first watched her life play out in whole in all of its glories and equal atrocities — that he was there, too. The wound of him feels fresh even when it’s eons old, because what she remembers the most in this world (and perhaps any other) is the warmth that she found against her mother’s side, and how light she felt under the careful embrace of her father’s watchful gaze. She misses them more than the water fills her lungs.
But it was twilight when she met him.
Malca had felt his eyes before she had felt anything else. Cheek-to-shoulder, she had whirled around to face the growing shadows he had crept from without fear in her heart, but a burning disdain expecting to find buried between the fractures of his irises that same look of needling pity that she had come to know so well in her short lifetime. She recognized it now — that old, bemoaning disappointment — because she had seen it a thousand times before this moment whenever someone new looked upon her for the first time; whenever someone saw her damage.
It isn’t what she found though, and wrongly, she softened her bristles.
Because the first time that she saw him was when the last rays of sunlight were refracting off the gold of his skin and the silver of his hair, and he looked at her in a way that she thought no one else ever had, or would, and probably ever ought to. Because he didn’t see how her right eye was split by galaxies of white cosmos, or the way that she leaned a little too hard towards her left side. Because he didn’t look away when her lips parted then and a sliver of her pointed fangs peeked out through the gap of her otherwise delicate mouth.
Because it was twilight when they met and she decided then, and instantly, that he was different.
He was.
Different, because he was a viper.
Different, because he was a shark.
Different, because he was a god, he had said to her.
He told her that he was a “collector, of sorts”, and somehow she hadn’t seen the unwavering want that in those moments was seeping through the colour in his cold, hungry eyes. Perhaps it was the sun on his skin that blinded her, because she didn’t realize that what he intended to collect was her — that he would take her, like he took so many of them, to keep; forever. She didn’t realize someone, or something, could want her like that — that he wanted everything like that. Because the swirl of constellations in her blind eye reminded him of the places he had been, and all of the things that he had touched that made him better than the rest of them.Because the gentle curve of her hips, her oversize eyes, and the delicate flicker of her mouth when she smiled stirred in him something he deemed worth exploring. Because he liked her smallness, and the tilt of her incongruent hips as she walked, left leaning; overcompensating, struggling — broken.
Because that’s how gods became gods — by eating up the weak and the fragile.
And at last, when her body breeches the purple sea and her legs find footing on the shore finally, there’s a cool breeze that runs its fingers down the length of her back, scaling the mountains of her vertebrae, and leaving prickled skin in its wake. It reminds her of him, of the way he would touch her without needing to; like she belonged to him, like she was his.
And as though the thought alone is all it takes to conjure him, he appears.
It’s nothing new. He visits her often, with a crooked smile that drips from his arrogant mouth like water might. She smiles, sweetly, and greets him on the shoreline with a vacantness in her eyes that he won’t notice. Then he leans his lips against the side of her ear and tells her something that drops her heart into her knees.
“Fly,” he says now, his lips against her ears; too close.
She knows well enough that the only games he plays are the ones that he is set to win — but she has been caged for eons, lonely for eons.
Dead, for eons.
On the same cheek she turned once to face him in the twilight she feels his warm lips press up against, and at first she sees nothing, before she sees everything; stars, planets, memories, and then, finally, home. He’s touching her until he isn’t, until the light leaves his skin and he dissolves into the twilight suddenly disappeared while she soars alone above the ‘s’ shaped river she was born beside.
She flies.
It’s a rebirth of sorts — just as violent and cathartic as the first. This time is different though.
This time she doesn’t forget where she’s come from.
This time she remembers everything.
TL;DR - Elektrum steals baby Malca and keeps her in a purple prison for a while, now releases her for whatever reason. IDK.
Two.
Three.
Malca lets the water fill her lungs until she isn’t empty anymore. It takes time, she knows, because she is so hollow these days, but she doesn’t mind. The water over her head drowns out the noise of everything else; the noise of him, too. It drowns the static. It drowns the loneliness. It drowns the impossibility of the paradise-like prison he has built for her, with its lilac skies and velvet purple water. It doesn’t drown her. Here the sea is her salvation, and you can watch her as she ebbs and flows with the tide while her tangle of black hair mingles delicately between the sea-foam and white-capped ocean waves.
She will never look so peaceful as here, the one plane of all existences where he will not follow.
She is no stranger to other worlds, even if she cannot quite remember.
There are a lot of things that Malca can’t remember.
For example, she doesn’t remember that she chose him, too. That somewhere, far, far away, where the ends of worlds came together and souls would choose souls, where she first watched her life play out in whole in all of its glories and equal atrocities — that he was there, too. The wound of him feels fresh even when it’s eons old, because what she remembers the most in this world (and perhaps any other) is the warmth that she found against her mother’s side, and how light she felt under the careful embrace of her father’s watchful gaze. She misses them more than the water fills her lungs.
But it was twilight when she met him.
Malca had felt his eyes before she had felt anything else. Cheek-to-shoulder, she had whirled around to face the growing shadows he had crept from without fear in her heart, but a burning disdain expecting to find buried between the fractures of his irises that same look of needling pity that she had come to know so well in her short lifetime. She recognized it now — that old, bemoaning disappointment — because she had seen it a thousand times before this moment whenever someone new looked upon her for the first time; whenever someone saw her damage.
It isn’t what she found though, and wrongly, she softened her bristles.
Because the first time that she saw him was when the last rays of sunlight were refracting off the gold of his skin and the silver of his hair, and he looked at her in a way that she thought no one else ever had, or would, and probably ever ought to. Because he didn’t see how her right eye was split by galaxies of white cosmos, or the way that she leaned a little too hard towards her left side. Because he didn’t look away when her lips parted then and a sliver of her pointed fangs peeked out through the gap of her otherwise delicate mouth.
Because it was twilight when they met and she decided then, and instantly, that he was different.
He was.
Different, because he was a viper.
Different, because he was a shark.
Different, because he was a god, he had said to her.
He told her that he was a “collector, of sorts”, and somehow she hadn’t seen the unwavering want that in those moments was seeping through the colour in his cold, hungry eyes. Perhaps it was the sun on his skin that blinded her, because she didn’t realize that what he intended to collect was her — that he would take her, like he took so many of them, to keep; forever. She didn’t realize someone, or something, could want her like that — that he wanted everything like that. Because the swirl of constellations in her blind eye reminded him of the places he had been, and all of the things that he had touched that made him better than the rest of them.Because the gentle curve of her hips, her oversize eyes, and the delicate flicker of her mouth when she smiled stirred in him something he deemed worth exploring. Because he liked her smallness, and the tilt of her incongruent hips as she walked, left leaning; overcompensating, struggling — broken.
Because that’s how gods became gods — by eating up the weak and the fragile.
And at last, when her body breeches the purple sea and her legs find footing on the shore finally, there’s a cool breeze that runs its fingers down the length of her back, scaling the mountains of her vertebrae, and leaving prickled skin in its wake. It reminds her of him, of the way he would touch her without needing to; like she belonged to him, like she was his.
And as though the thought alone is all it takes to conjure him, he appears.
It’s nothing new. He visits her often, with a crooked smile that drips from his arrogant mouth like water might. She smiles, sweetly, and greets him on the shoreline with a vacantness in her eyes that he won’t notice. Then he leans his lips against the side of her ear and tells her something that drops her heart into her knees.
“Fly,” he says now, his lips against her ears; too close.
She knows well enough that the only games he plays are the ones that he is set to win — but she has been caged for eons, lonely for eons.
Dead, for eons.
On the same cheek she turned once to face him in the twilight she feels his warm lips press up against, and at first she sees nothing, before she sees everything; stars, planets, memories, and then, finally, home. He’s touching her until he isn’t, until the light leaves his skin and he dissolves into the twilight suddenly disappeared while she soars alone above the ‘s’ shaped river she was born beside.
She flies.
It’s a rebirth of sorts — just as violent and cathartic as the first. This time is different though.
This time she doesn’t forget where she’s come from.
This time she remembers everything.
TL;DR - Elektrum steals baby Malca and keeps her in a purple prison for a while, now releases her for whatever reason. IDK.