we are slaves to the sirens of the salty sea
Could she ever understand him?
Not really.
She knows that much.
Knows that there is so much of him that she will never be able to comprehend—never be able to touch. So much of him that exists in a world that is completely and wholly foreign to her. She has always been leashed to the sea. Tied to the tides of it. She has lived in the push and pull of the sea, living to the whims of first Ivar and then her unknowing—and he, well, he is so much more than that. He is so much bigger than her watery home. So much more than she would ever be able to fully understand.
And yet, she finds that she wants to.
She wants to try.
He doesn’t push her away when she touches him and she doesn’t pass right through him. Instead she is able to even feel a semblance of warmth from him that sends a shiver up her spine. “I know,” she whispers and part of her is sad that it has. Part of her is grateful. The final part is intrigued. She feels her breath fan against him and push up against her own nose, warming her scaled skin. “I think I do.”
She closes her silvery eyes and presses her forehead against him, stepping closer into him once more. “I think you’ve always been real,” she admits, pausing, trying to find words for the thoughts that clash in her own head. “That means…” she hesitates before continuing, “you belong to more than just me.”
A smile, no real jealousy or sorrow in her expression when she opens her eyes again.
“But I still like to pretend.”
@[jamie]