01-16-2020, 04:00 AM
she fell for the idea of him
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
Something inside of her flinches when Gail says he speaks of her. Surprise, mostly, but it is a disquiet that lingers the longest in her chest. The idea that he tells anyone anything unsettles her for a variety of reasons, the most prominent being that it forces her to admit that that nameless, twisted connection between them possibly existed. Because when she is alone – when the seawater is gone from her hair and the illusion of the valley faded, when the heat of the stars fades from under her skin and the galaxy feels more like a dream than a reality – all she is left with is the mark on her hip, and in that sense, she is no different than so many that walk this earth. She is not the only one marked by him, and she will not be the last.
She is not unique; she is not interesting. She is another playing piece like the rest of them.
“I was taught to be willing,” she says quietly, but not remorsefully. It was a part of her nature, now, so thoroughly ingrained that sometimes she wonders if it was more intrinsic than truly learned. “I don’t know how to be any other way.” She doesn’t admit, though, how easy it is. That it’s not always out of fear, or survival, but instead just for the simple fact that she wants it. Because maybe there is something a little bit wrong with her that will never be right, a crooked piece of her soul that will never be straight.
“I can stay, for a little while,” she offers, after Gail says that she herself cannot leave. She remembers how badly she had wanted out of this place the last time she was here, and she cannot fathom what it must be like to be unable to go; to rely on others to come to you for any hope of relieving the boredom and loneliness that eternity tended to be made up of.
She watches her for a moment, contemplating what she asks. Her story is long and mostly unremarkable, interspersed with just enough turmoil to break up the monotony. But a lifetime of experiences has taught her that most were looking for something when they asked questions like this; she just isn’t sure what. “I wasn’t born here, but I’ve died here so many times it feels like I was. I came here a long time ago, from a place similar to Beqanna, but with far less magic. And that was where I learned to be...like this, I guess.” Obedient and willing, unafraid of the dark but cautious of those that rule it.
“There was a place there...a jungle. I didn’t belong there, but I was invited anyway.” Because it was a place meant for shadows and malice, and she had been young and vibrant, entirely untouched and unbroken. It was hardly a wonder that she had caught the eye of their king – the man that she hasn’t seen ever since she left that jungle. “And that was where I eventually met Dhumin. We left together to come here, to Beqanna, and then to the Valley.” She skims over his name, like maybe if she can’t taste it she won’t feel anything. She won’t remember that he had chosen to stay here, in the afterlife, and she won’t remember how she had torn open all the wounds she had fought for so long to close.
“And I’ve just never left. I don’t feel like I belong here anymore, but I would rather be lost here than try to start over somewhere else.”
She is not unique; she is not interesting. She is another playing piece like the rest of them.
“I was taught to be willing,” she says quietly, but not remorsefully. It was a part of her nature, now, so thoroughly ingrained that sometimes she wonders if it was more intrinsic than truly learned. “I don’t know how to be any other way.” She doesn’t admit, though, how easy it is. That it’s not always out of fear, or survival, but instead just for the simple fact that she wants it. Because maybe there is something a little bit wrong with her that will never be right, a crooked piece of her soul that will never be straight.
“I can stay, for a little while,” she offers, after Gail says that she herself cannot leave. She remembers how badly she had wanted out of this place the last time she was here, and she cannot fathom what it must be like to be unable to go; to rely on others to come to you for any hope of relieving the boredom and loneliness that eternity tended to be made up of.
She watches her for a moment, contemplating what she asks. Her story is long and mostly unremarkable, interspersed with just enough turmoil to break up the monotony. But a lifetime of experiences has taught her that most were looking for something when they asked questions like this; she just isn’t sure what. “I wasn’t born here, but I’ve died here so many times it feels like I was. I came here a long time ago, from a place similar to Beqanna, but with far less magic. And that was where I learned to be...like this, I guess.” Obedient and willing, unafraid of the dark but cautious of those that rule it.
“There was a place there...a jungle. I didn’t belong there, but I was invited anyway.” Because it was a place meant for shadows and malice, and she had been young and vibrant, entirely untouched and unbroken. It was hardly a wonder that she had caught the eye of their king – the man that she hasn’t seen ever since she left that jungle. “And that was where I eventually met Dhumin. We left together to come here, to Beqanna, and then to the Valley.” She skims over his name, like maybe if she can’t taste it she won’t feel anything. She won’t remember that he had chosen to stay here, in the afterlife, and she won’t remember how she had torn open all the wounds she had fought for so long to close.
“And I’ve just never left. I don’t feel like I belong here anymore, but I would rather be lost here than try to start over somewhere else.”
ryatah