07-12-2015, 09:26 PM
what is dead may never die;
They make quite a pair, the two of them. Clearly it takes someone with some schooling in social graces and etiquette to make a conversation really work. And equally clearly, they are both sorely lacking in that department.
Perhaps it is the fault of their parents. It's hard to blame Aletheia's mother – Librette did not even know that the girl existed, had never known herself to be pregnant with her, and had certainly never seen her. And Carnage? Perhaps Aletheia had met him, but if she had, she didn't know it. But every second her memories fly further back into the past, fading into ever more dim shadows. So perhaps it is the fault of Aletheia's parents for being absent, for having her in the way they had her (which, really, means it's all Carnage's fault, as Librette had not a single ounce of input in the matter.)
If she'd known that he had the advantage of at least one parent, where she had none, she wouldn't have cared. Already she is sure that her lack of parents is no disadvantage. They had created her (and yes, created is the apt term in her case), and that was enough.
Standing there in the snow, she has her own kind of beauty, the kind of absent, waifish beauty that so many of the stick-thin models seem to carry. Her heritage is muddied with many breeds, but her graceful, elegant frame has survived all of that cross-breeding to leave her, well, her. She's also got the advantage of being more grown than he, which means more grown into the length of her legs and the proportions of her body. She is a pretty thing already, and once she is entirely finished growing, she'll be even more lovely. Perhaps one day she'll care, but today, she doesn't even know what lovely is.
He confirms that it is cold here, and she ponders that for a moment. Had she ever felt cold before? What did it mean, really, to be cold? Was it dangerous? It certainly wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, what did it feel like to be not cold? She couldn't remember. There was simply nothingness, and then there was cold.
He keeps speaking, and he talks of a home that he has, where there is warmth. She knows her home is in the Valley, although she does not know anything but the way to get there. She wonders, briefly, if the Valley is warm. She will find out, she suspects.
She remembers, then, that he's spoken, and that it's usually polite to talk back when you're being talked to. And so, she fixes him with her stare of ice once more. "Why?" she skips right past (or knows nothing of) the more common, logical questions. She could've asked where that is. She could've asked how he'd come to be here, instead of there, wherever there is. But she doesn't. She asks such an oblique, open ended question that it could mean almost anything. Perhaps she's curious to see how he interprets it. Perhaps she thinks she's been perfectly clear. Perhaps she's getting used to this whole talking thing, and just isn't sure how to do it quite yet.
"I don't know if it's warm where I live." she says, and it's difficult to tell whether she's talking to herself or talking to him.
Perhaps it is the fault of their parents. It's hard to blame Aletheia's mother – Librette did not even know that the girl existed, had never known herself to be pregnant with her, and had certainly never seen her. And Carnage? Perhaps Aletheia had met him, but if she had, she didn't know it. But every second her memories fly further back into the past, fading into ever more dim shadows. So perhaps it is the fault of Aletheia's parents for being absent, for having her in the way they had her (which, really, means it's all Carnage's fault, as Librette had not a single ounce of input in the matter.)
If she'd known that he had the advantage of at least one parent, where she had none, she wouldn't have cared. Already she is sure that her lack of parents is no disadvantage. They had created her (and yes, created is the apt term in her case), and that was enough.
Standing there in the snow, she has her own kind of beauty, the kind of absent, waifish beauty that so many of the stick-thin models seem to carry. Her heritage is muddied with many breeds, but her graceful, elegant frame has survived all of that cross-breeding to leave her, well, her. She's also got the advantage of being more grown than he, which means more grown into the length of her legs and the proportions of her body. She is a pretty thing already, and once she is entirely finished growing, she'll be even more lovely. Perhaps one day she'll care, but today, she doesn't even know what lovely is.
He confirms that it is cold here, and she ponders that for a moment. Had she ever felt cold before? What did it mean, really, to be cold? Was it dangerous? It certainly wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, what did it feel like to be not cold? She couldn't remember. There was simply nothingness, and then there was cold.
He keeps speaking, and he talks of a home that he has, where there is warmth. She knows her home is in the Valley, although she does not know anything but the way to get there. She wonders, briefly, if the Valley is warm. She will find out, she suspects.
She remembers, then, that he's spoken, and that it's usually polite to talk back when you're being talked to. And so, she fixes him with her stare of ice once more. "Why?" she skips right past (or knows nothing of) the more common, logical questions. She could've asked where that is. She could've asked how he'd come to be here, instead of there, wherever there is. But she doesn't. She asks such an oblique, open ended question that it could mean almost anything. Perhaps she's curious to see how he interprets it. Perhaps she thinks she's been perfectly clear. Perhaps she's getting used to this whole talking thing, and just isn't sure how to do it quite yet.
"I don't know if it's warm where I live." she says, and it's difficult to tell whether she's talking to herself or talking to him.
but rises again
Aletheia
harder and stronger
Bahahahaha.