Trust a witch (GLASSHEART)

[Glassheart]

(Is this what it feels like when worlds collide?

She thinks that it might be, because she can feel the cataclysmic explosion the second

their bodies meet like two planets bound by a gravity that is both disastrous and amazing.

They have never made it this far before without resetting, but the sky now is lacking the

familiar warmth of pink that signals the sunset and the end of them. There is no end this time. There are no thorns, no hazels. There are no sunsets.

There is a river, but all that they bleed into today is each other.)

“How can I help you?”

Sunday asks, and Glassheart wonders fleetingly if this stranger can see past her flesh and to the bone as though her skin and muscle is all made up of glass. She’s surprised at how translucent she’s become, but the offer of help is hardly unwelcome - impossible, but not unwelcome. Because how could she even begin to describe what was happening inside her head? How could she even say out loud that there’s someone else? And even if she could, how could anything on earth exist to remedy it?

She doesn’t know about magic, at least not yet. Her mother had been careful to shield her from things like that - from monsters, and magic, and danger. Loveliar had known them all too well.

Her mother had loved her, but she wasn’t prepared for this.

(When it is over her golden skin is shimmering with sweat and the rosy glow of love, and

she looks across her shoulders at the lover she has spent her whole life waiting for. “I

love you like the rivers love the sea,” she says, and barely, because her heart is still

hammering and her lungs still feel as though they are breathless for every touch that Cordis supplied.)

Because the noise of it all was becoming unbearable - the world, the static, the memories - the sounds looped again, and again, and again. And suddenly, she’s reeling backwards from the disorienting assaults of all these feelings that aren’t hers, these things that never happened to her. 

“I don’t think you can help me,” she says, almost whimpers, because the noise is so loud and the images so vivid and bright - and wrong. She wants to ask her what her intruder wants from her, but can’t bring herself to speak the words aloud.

And then, for a moment, just one, the cacophony quiets. Glassheart can hear the breeze as it runs through the trees and rattles the leaves on their branches and the wildflowers at the bases of their ancient trunks, somewhere farther still she can hear the faint trickle of cool, running water. She breathes in, and when she does so she allows her eyes to close and her dark eyelashes to settle in along the tops of her cheeks. There is just one memory this time:

(“I will always come back to you.”

She doesn’t need to hear the words come back to her. She doesn’t need any lyrical

affirmations other than the feel of Cordis’ lips climbing the mountains of her vertebrae. It

is all the proof she needs that she is loved. It lingers in the dark of her eyes, like lightning

splitting fog into halves. She is loved. She is loved and Carnage could never take that back.

There are things that exist that even magic dares not touch.)

@[Sunday]