01-04-2016, 07:56 PM
trapped inside this twisted circle, it ain't right but it's eternal
She knows nothing of her blood, nothing of the mother who had thought her to be dead or of the father and brother who had tracked her to this place to reclaim her. She knew nothing of her importance, of her potential, of why her ability with water would make her any more or less special. So when the two men come, she is not waiting for them. She does not even notice the first as he flies past her, and even though her eyes had been turned to the sky, they were as sightless as stones bouncing at the bottom of the river.
It is only when the second claims the ocean and her fury, when he takes her for his own and holds her against the stars and the moon that she finally notices him. But it isn’t even he that she notices, it is the displacement of so much water that draws her attention and holds it like a starling might covet the shining belly of a glittering seashell. Her ability is her eyes and hands, it is her only way of understanding the world in which she lives in, the horses that live beside her. She can feel the water in them, the tiny molecules of water in every living thing, and she uses it like a finger to trace the outline of their shape, to know them intimately when she should know nothing at all.
Times slithers past so slowly as she follows the draw of the water in the sky, delighting in it’s weight, in the density of how so much of it could be held so high above her. She did not ache to see it though, and what a sight it must have been, for she could feel it in her soul and skin and nothing could be more magnificent than that.
By the time she has made it to them there are small wounds on her knees, scuffs of vulnerable pink and red from where her small hooves had caught in stones and roots and holes erroded away in the sand. But she doesn’t even notice the injuries, or the two horses gathered nearby, because the water heaves and buckles spits rain along the curve of her slate and green spine. She responds to it instinctively, catching the entirety of its weight when Azriel crumples. But she is not strong like he is, cannot hold it to the sky and let hours bleed by, so when it spills over she borrows that strength. Where it falls she allows it, redirecting the flow so it does not crush them, will not drown them, and the water spills harmlessly back into the ocean. The waves seem angry though and they push high on the shore, higher than they’ve ever come and for a moment she basks in the strength of it, shares in the wildness of such glory. But when they climb higher still she pushes them back, sweat prickling along her skin until the sea is calm and quiet and only a little resentful.
For a long moment she is still and silent, basking in the way the moonlight feels cold and silver against the steel grey her her delicate face. It is then that Capture chooses to trace the water where it had rained down from the wave to cover the beach. It is then that she notices two small bodies in the sand and she turns quickly, awkwardly, those sightless blue eyes wide with surprise. “What was that?” She asks quietly, inching closer to where the water bent around their bodies. “What happened?” Then like rain in reverse she is pulling the excess ocean water from where it had dampened their skin, from where it had pooled in muddy puddles across the beach and coaxes it back into the vast watery depths.
“They call me Capture.” Her voice is still small and gentle, like the echo of rain falling through leaves, and if she understands the cruelty of her name at all, it doesn’t translate in the shadows of her quiet face.
CAPTURE
It is only when the second claims the ocean and her fury, when he takes her for his own and holds her against the stars and the moon that she finally notices him. But it isn’t even he that she notices, it is the displacement of so much water that draws her attention and holds it like a starling might covet the shining belly of a glittering seashell. Her ability is her eyes and hands, it is her only way of understanding the world in which she lives in, the horses that live beside her. She can feel the water in them, the tiny molecules of water in every living thing, and she uses it like a finger to trace the outline of their shape, to know them intimately when she should know nothing at all.
Times slithers past so slowly as she follows the draw of the water in the sky, delighting in it’s weight, in the density of how so much of it could be held so high above her. She did not ache to see it though, and what a sight it must have been, for she could feel it in her soul and skin and nothing could be more magnificent than that.
By the time she has made it to them there are small wounds on her knees, scuffs of vulnerable pink and red from where her small hooves had caught in stones and roots and holes erroded away in the sand. But she doesn’t even notice the injuries, or the two horses gathered nearby, because the water heaves and buckles spits rain along the curve of her slate and green spine. She responds to it instinctively, catching the entirety of its weight when Azriel crumples. But she is not strong like he is, cannot hold it to the sky and let hours bleed by, so when it spills over she borrows that strength. Where it falls she allows it, redirecting the flow so it does not crush them, will not drown them, and the water spills harmlessly back into the ocean. The waves seem angry though and they push high on the shore, higher than they’ve ever come and for a moment she basks in the strength of it, shares in the wildness of such glory. But when they climb higher still she pushes them back, sweat prickling along her skin until the sea is calm and quiet and only a little resentful.
For a long moment she is still and silent, basking in the way the moonlight feels cold and silver against the steel grey her her delicate face. It is then that Capture chooses to trace the water where it had rained down from the wave to cover the beach. It is then that she notices two small bodies in the sand and she turns quickly, awkwardly, those sightless blue eyes wide with surprise. “What was that?” She asks quietly, inching closer to where the water bent around their bodies. “What happened?” Then like rain in reverse she is pulling the excess ocean water from where it had dampened their skin, from where it had pooled in muddy puddles across the beach and coaxes it back into the vast watery depths.
“They call me Capture.” Her voice is still small and gentle, like the echo of rain falling through leaves, and if she understands the cruelty of her name at all, it doesn’t translate in the shadows of her quiet face.
azriel x swift