12-30-2018, 04:15 PM
living for the past
because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
When she’d first decided to abandon everything she’d ever known in favor of the ridiculously unfamiliar, Wishbone hadn’t really thought of the consequences much past Nerine. The drive to ensure the Leviathans were in good care during her absence wasn’t something Warrick or Scorch had to teach her about leadership; it was written into the formula of her affection for Nerine and its inhabitants. That relationship — the one between Wishbone and Nerine — was a drastically different one from her relationships with anyone else — with Wolfbane, with Ivar, with Khaedrik, with Caw, with Virgo. She put Nerine first in her thoughts and in her planning.
She left a note for Nerine (bones still damp from the soil of their graves, hanging from the trees and clanking together like wind chimes in a summer breeze, spelling “Breckin” as the answer to only one question among many) but nothing for any of the others.
It was only after Wishbone had been well on her way, winding along a narrow trail, that she thought of what she might say to them. The words lasted in her mind, dancing through her dreams and even into her nightmares, but the swell of adventure swept away the urgency to deliver them. And now, when she has the ability to say them, they have lost their importance. New words are needed for her rearrival, fresh off the boat of exploration (not words to explain her disappearance, like they might’ve been before; not words to apologize for her disappearance, as some might do).
Wishbone senses his presence behind her, the way his eyes scan her body with that burning lust, but she doesn’t turn toward him. Her amber eyes watch the way the ash rises from the mouth of the volcano to haze the sunset-sky before fading into nothing. Finally, the sound of his voice brings her around; legs dancing in the water and hips swaying in a manner that should be purely for movement but instead creates a look (especially with the sunset-lighting) something more dangerous.
There’s a hint of a daredevil smirk on her sable lips. “No, I haven’t.” Wishbone doesn’t know how long Ivar has held Ischia as his own, but his words are proof enough that he has been to Nerine more than once in the time of her absence. Her amber eyes wander over the strength of his face, admiring the patchwork of blue and gold and cream that adorns his striking features.
Faint scents of other mares drift on the early evening breeze toward her, coming from straight off his shoulders. She frowns at the scents of them (sweet, giggling little mares) and steps closer. Before he might’ve had the chance to touch her first, her damp body is wrapping around him — shoulder against shoulder against hip against flank. Her lips dance along the curve of his spine as Wishbone comes alongside Ivar and when they are standing shoulder to shoulder, looking at the sea again, she makes sure to place a firm nip on the swell of his chest.
Ivar smells of her now and she tosses her unkept forelock out of her eyes before simply stating, “That’s much better.”
She left a note for Nerine (bones still damp from the soil of their graves, hanging from the trees and clanking together like wind chimes in a summer breeze, spelling “Breckin” as the answer to only one question among many) but nothing for any of the others.
It was only after Wishbone had been well on her way, winding along a narrow trail, that she thought of what she might say to them. The words lasted in her mind, dancing through her dreams and even into her nightmares, but the swell of adventure swept away the urgency to deliver them. And now, when she has the ability to say them, they have lost their importance. New words are needed for her rearrival, fresh off the boat of exploration (not words to explain her disappearance, like they might’ve been before; not words to apologize for her disappearance, as some might do).
Wishbone senses his presence behind her, the way his eyes scan her body with that burning lust, but she doesn’t turn toward him. Her amber eyes watch the way the ash rises from the mouth of the volcano to haze the sunset-sky before fading into nothing. Finally, the sound of his voice brings her around; legs dancing in the water and hips swaying in a manner that should be purely for movement but instead creates a look (especially with the sunset-lighting) something more dangerous.
There’s a hint of a daredevil smirk on her sable lips. “No, I haven’t.” Wishbone doesn’t know how long Ivar has held Ischia as his own, but his words are proof enough that he has been to Nerine more than once in the time of her absence. Her amber eyes wander over the strength of his face, admiring the patchwork of blue and gold and cream that adorns his striking features.
Faint scents of other mares drift on the early evening breeze toward her, coming from straight off his shoulders. She frowns at the scents of them (sweet, giggling little mares) and steps closer. Before he might’ve had the chance to touch her first, her damp body is wrapping around him — shoulder against shoulder against hip against flank. Her lips dance along the curve of his spine as Wishbone comes alongside Ivar and when they are standing shoulder to shoulder, looking at the sea again, she makes sure to place a firm nip on the swell of his chest.
Ivar smells of her now and she tosses her unkept forelock out of her eyes before simply stating, “That’s much better.”
@[Ivar]