08-22-2021, 07:59 PM
liesma
She does not expect him, but how could she have?
There are so many things that she has not seen.
There are many things that she will never see.
“You,” she says and watches him step over the log, watches him come closer.
(Is this how her mother felt when she’d called her father to her? She imagines that it must have gone that way. There is no way for her to know that her father approached her mother without invitation, that he told her that he had never seen anything like her and she had responded plainly that of course he had not, there was no one like her. There is no way for her to know that she is not like her mother at all.
But this is a lesson for another day.)
She tilts her head, casting him in a new light as she angles her glowing blaze toward him.
She studies his brilliant coat, the dark contrast of the ring of shadows around his head. If she were to reach out and touch them would they scatter?
He offers his name though she has not asked and she shifts her focus back to his face. She does not smile, not because she is a cruel thing but because her father does not smile (he is not unkind either, simply serious, intense). She takes a single step toward him.
“Nazghul,” she repeats, trying out the shape of it, “my name is Liesma.”
She pauses only briefly before asking, “where did you come by this color?”
She gestures to his shoulder but stops just short of touching him.
There are so many things that she has not seen.
There are many things that she will never see.
“You,” she says and watches him step over the log, watches him come closer.
(Is this how her mother felt when she’d called her father to her? She imagines that it must have gone that way. There is no way for her to know that her father approached her mother without invitation, that he told her that he had never seen anything like her and she had responded plainly that of course he had not, there was no one like her. There is no way for her to know that she is not like her mother at all.
But this is a lesson for another day.)
She tilts her head, casting him in a new light as she angles her glowing blaze toward him.
She studies his brilliant coat, the dark contrast of the ring of shadows around his head. If she were to reach out and touch them would they scatter?
He offers his name though she has not asked and she shifts her focus back to his face. She does not smile, not because she is a cruel thing but because her father does not smile (he is not unkind either, simply serious, intense). She takes a single step toward him.
“Nazghul,” she repeats, trying out the shape of it, “my name is Liesma.”
She pauses only briefly before asking, “where did you come by this color?”
She gestures to his shoulder but stops just short of touching him.
i see you shining through the treetops
But i don’t feel you pulling strings anymore
But i don’t feel you pulling strings anymore
@nazghul