06-04-2021, 12:24 PM
she looks like sleep to the freezing
It is the broken skin that draws her to him.
(Because there is so much broken beneath the thick layer of ice, her own skin chapped, such a soft blue light glowing where it is cracked and fraying. It would bleed, certainly, were it not frozen.)
She shrouds herself in snow to ward off the heat of the day, lets it gather thick along her spine, catch in her frozen mane and tail (tangled as they are in this state). She brings with her such a terrible cold, a stark contrast to the unseasonable warmth, and she approaches with her head tilted.
Of the four daughters, she was always the coldest.
Even before.
Before the darkness seized her and decorated her with ice.
Before she awoke one morning sometime later and found that she had become what she had been meant to be all along.
But she is not cruel, Camellia. Do not mistake her curiosity for malice. Do not think the way she rakes those pupil-less eyes across the bone erupting from his skin is anything other than a sort of peculiar interest. She has never seen such a thing, you see.
For a time, she does not speak, only studies, offering only a passing glance at the juvenile bird as snow accumulates around them, their breath erupting in plumes. (Winter has made her strange. But such extremes have a way of doing that.)
“Does it hurt?” she asks finally, reaching out to touch the bone without bothering to ask permission. Just barely. She does not know yet if the ice she’s made of is cold enough to be painful to the touch. She has not touched anyone, has not bothered.
(Because there is so much broken beneath the thick layer of ice, her own skin chapped, such a soft blue light glowing where it is cracked and fraying. It would bleed, certainly, were it not frozen.)
She shrouds herself in snow to ward off the heat of the day, lets it gather thick along her spine, catch in her frozen mane and tail (tangled as they are in this state). She brings with her such a terrible cold, a stark contrast to the unseasonable warmth, and she approaches with her head tilted.
Of the four daughters, she was always the coldest.
Even before.
Before the darkness seized her and decorated her with ice.
Before she awoke one morning sometime later and found that she had become what she had been meant to be all along.
But she is not cruel, Camellia. Do not mistake her curiosity for malice. Do not think the way she rakes those pupil-less eyes across the bone erupting from his skin is anything other than a sort of peculiar interest. She has never seen such a thing, you see.
For a time, she does not speak, only studies, offering only a passing glance at the juvenile bird as snow accumulates around them, their breath erupting in plumes. (Winter has made her strange. But such extremes have a way of doing that.)
“Does it hurt?” she asks finally, reaching out to touch the bone without bothering to ask permission. Just barely. She does not know yet if the ice she’s made of is cold enough to be painful to the touch. She has not touched anyone, has not bothered.
camellia
@[Reave] finally lmao