Stand face to face with your god
She is spared the flame-tongued lick of irritation when he moves away from her.
Had she really hungered for warmth, she would have had no choice but to succumb to frustration. But she has so little interest in weakness now. The cold has sunk so deep into her bones now that she doesn’t believe she’ll ever fully exorcise it, but she savors the burn of it. She savors the pain it brings with it.
She is no damsel, though she plays one so well, and she feels nothing at all as he turns to face her. There, in the furthest corner of her mouth, the flicker of some dark smirk that burns out like a supernova. Collapses in on itself like a blackhole as she studies his face bathed in the soft glow of her nebulous wings, the stars tangled in her hair.
He grins at her but she merely flutters her heavy eyelids, her chin tucked up to her chest. “Crowns,” she coos, a saccharine echo. She supposes he’s right -- the name is meaningless. She does not offer hers in return. Not in any great display of pettiness nor any desire to feel like she has convinced him to share with her something she’s not willing to share herself.
“What an interesting name,” she murmurs and then turns from him, cuts her way through the water back to dry land. The burn of cold in her bones will linger, she knows, and she will let it.
@[crowns]