She carries memories of him fondly. As though they had met on pleasant terms and parted on the same. As though he had not ripped her apart and then let the crows eat their fill. As though he had not brought the smiles forth from the shadows to smile upon her as he rented her apart, until she cracked like the spine of some ancient book, as though his magic did not completely overwhelm her flimsy, pale gifts.
And still—and still.
She finds that she smiles when she thinks of the memory.
Something dark and twisted, a prick from a rose’s thorn. Poetic, almost.
This time, when she finds him, she is older—as is he—but not by much. Still, when one is young, the months pass quickly and the consequences are immediate. Her coltish legs are longer, her fine-boned face beginning to lose some of the softness of youth. There is all the tell-tale sign of her aging. The ivory that begins to sprout from her very flesh, the barest hints of it showing on her chest, her forehead, her shoulders. The whispers of the plates of it to come, the gift and the curse that would cover her body.
When she finds him this time, there is more knowing in her eyes, but poison on her tongue.
“You said the next time would be my turn,” she says with a girlish smile, her silver bell voice belying the request as she draws near him. An angling of her head as she remembers the destruction and pain.
“I hope that you still like to play games.”
but in all chaos, there is calculation
@[crowns]