we are slaves to the sirens of the salty sea
Evia, in so many ways, does not know how to dream—not like other things do. She doesn’t know how to conjure things from nothing. Doesn’t know how to want and desire. Doesn’t know how to be truly jealous and squirrel away things in the cavern of her chest. She just knows how to be this thing that she is. She knows how to want and be wanted, to thirst and to hunger. To satisfy the darkness that lurks within her, this thing that she was born with. To go after her desires as though it was the only thing in the world.
But if she could dream—it would be of him.
She would dream of the raspy boy who had found her that day. Who had been conjured of dark and smoke and who had never told her his name. Of the man who found her later, not so weak. Of this champion who stands beside her now, so confident and sure in the death that cloaks him. These are the things that she would dream of. That she would gladly succumb to. Perhaps if she knew more of her father, it would make sense. That she would be born of a blood magician to become enamored with one for death.
Ashes to ashes—a daughter of blood, a lover of death.
But her mind does not work in such complex trappings and she merely follows the path before her. She can only give him her pretty, silvery smile, ethereal eyes mercurial as she regards him, as he passes through her. She laughs and it is like wind chimes and bells. “I will know whatever it is you wish to show me,” she tilts her fine head, “and that you keep hidden away.” A smile as she turns, nodding toward the horizon. “The water is that way—we will need to start walking if we want to reach it anytime soon.”
She can feel the itch beginning on her scales, that desperate need to slip into the waves.
There’s a sly smile that curves the edges of her lips.
“Unless you know a faster way to get us to the sea.”
@[jamie]