03-15-2021, 03:50 PM
Ryatah
— there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you, don't you agree?
She adored Illum in a way that she had not expected. He had drawn her in with shadows, as if he had known the soul of her from the very beginning. As if he had known that for all the light she radiated that she would not be able to resist the temptation of being swallowed by darkness. He had felt like everything she had thought she wanted; the way he could coil shadows around her throat and then press cold, frosted lips to her skin, how his eyes changed from molten gold to warm amber in a flash. After everything with Atrox had fallen apart he had served as the salve to her wounded heart—the only thing that held her together.
She had told him that she was not going to stay forever, but she had loved him as if she didn’t believe her own words.
There is the faintest of aches somewhere behind her breastbone when he trails his nose across her cheek and to beneath her mane, undoubtedly searching for a part of her that is not drenched in the scent of Atrox. She wonders how she would feel if the roles were reversed; wonders how she will react when one day they cross paths and it is him that is covered in another scent with another family, and she is nothing but a memory. The very idea is enough to encourage the first embers of jealousy, but is a jealousy she has no right to. She belongs to someone else, and it is unfair for her to try and keep Illum to herself when she would never be his.
Still, she does not resist when he pulls her close and she steps easily beneath his wing, the warmth of her body melting the frost on his side away. She had forgotten what that felt like, the way his cold skin felt like a shock at first, sending a shiver down her back. “I like to think that I have some sense,” she counters back in her own lightly teasing tone, her teeth pulling at the black strands of his mane just for an excuse to touch him again. “I could have done worse than you,” there is still a small smile on her lips, but her voice softens and her almost black eyes turn more somber when she adds, “and you will do much better than me.”
Much better than the fool-hearted woman that changed her mind faster than the weather, who loved and kept things that should never be hers.
Her jaw tightens and her throat constricts at having to admit it out loud; to hear herself say, to accept, that one day he will do better than her. That they will not be able to curl around each other in this world of make believe they crafted for themselves, because she knows, without a doubt, that once Illum gives someone his heart it will be so far out of reach that not even she can touch it.
That is her excuse, then, to stretch this moment on for as long as she can. To drink in his scent and his touch as if it is the last time, because she knows someday it will be.
Her shoulder leans into him, her neck curved to gently run her nose over his wing that is draped across her back. She finds the places that she had healed from the fire in Taiga, mindlessly running her lips over the satin-feel of the feathers, before answering his question. “Everyone is fine,” is her vague answer, afraid of going into too much detail. She does not want to tell him about Astin and Maea, or Este and Selaphiel. She does not want to tell him that Hyaline and Atrox had turned into home, that her heart was more content than it has ever been. Instead she removes her nose from his wing, turning her delicate head back to his to look at the soft gold of his eyes. “But how are you? You seem to have survived despite my mediocre healing job.”
She had told him that she was not going to stay forever, but she had loved him as if she didn’t believe her own words.
There is the faintest of aches somewhere behind her breastbone when he trails his nose across her cheek and to beneath her mane, undoubtedly searching for a part of her that is not drenched in the scent of Atrox. She wonders how she would feel if the roles were reversed; wonders how she will react when one day they cross paths and it is him that is covered in another scent with another family, and she is nothing but a memory. The very idea is enough to encourage the first embers of jealousy, but is a jealousy she has no right to. She belongs to someone else, and it is unfair for her to try and keep Illum to herself when she would never be his.
Still, she does not resist when he pulls her close and she steps easily beneath his wing, the warmth of her body melting the frost on his side away. She had forgotten what that felt like, the way his cold skin felt like a shock at first, sending a shiver down her back. “I like to think that I have some sense,” she counters back in her own lightly teasing tone, her teeth pulling at the black strands of his mane just for an excuse to touch him again. “I could have done worse than you,” there is still a small smile on her lips, but her voice softens and her almost black eyes turn more somber when she adds, “and you will do much better than me.”
Much better than the fool-hearted woman that changed her mind faster than the weather, who loved and kept things that should never be hers.
Her jaw tightens and her throat constricts at having to admit it out loud; to hear herself say, to accept, that one day he will do better than her. That they will not be able to curl around each other in this world of make believe they crafted for themselves, because she knows, without a doubt, that once Illum gives someone his heart it will be so far out of reach that not even she can touch it.
That is her excuse, then, to stretch this moment on for as long as she can. To drink in his scent and his touch as if it is the last time, because she knows someday it will be.
Her shoulder leans into him, her neck curved to gently run her nose over his wing that is draped across her back. She finds the places that she had healed from the fire in Taiga, mindlessly running her lips over the satin-feel of the feathers, before answering his question. “Everyone is fine,” is her vague answer, afraid of going into too much detail. She does not want to tell him about Astin and Maea, or Este and Selaphiel. She does not want to tell him that Hyaline and Atrox had turned into home, that her heart was more content than it has ever been. Instead she removes her nose from his wing, turning her delicate head back to his to look at the soft gold of his eyes. “But how are you? You seem to have survived despite my mediocre healing job.”
there's something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin —
@[Illum]