10-24-2021, 03:01 PM
Crania
She wonders if, should she touch him, she might be able to breathe life back into the leaves, the fragile fingers of those branches.
(No, of course she could not. Her magic pales in comparison to the magic that has made him what he is. No matter how she willed them to spring forth anew, they would remain just as they are. Dead, dying, brittle. The magic that can turn someone into a season is, perhaps, even beyond her comprehension.)
He corrects her without hesitation. No, he does not love the autumn. He bears it like a burden instead. And she tilts her fine head, briefly searching his face, her pale pink gaze lingering briefly on the depthless orange eyes staring back at her.
Perhaps she should feel some sense of trepidation. Perhaps she should be afraid.
But her curiosity is insatiable, it always has been. It is the same curiosity now that it had been when she’d ventured closer to the thing of summer. The heat had wilted the blossoms in her hair then, too. (She mourns them now just as she had then, a sharp stab of sorrow spiraling through her chest, cannibalizing every inch of her sweetness.)
In the short time they have faced each other, she has learned this: it does not do well to assume anything at all. So, instead, as she continues to him, she asks something rather than making any further declarations about someone she knows absolutely nothing about.
“Have you always been this way?” she asks, the pale gaze skirting down across his shoulder where the leaves rustle softly. She does not try to call life into the blossoms in her hair. For the moment, she lets him rule the landscape, the flora, no matter how fiercely she wants to coax them back to life.
(No, of course she could not. Her magic pales in comparison to the magic that has made him what he is. No matter how she willed them to spring forth anew, they would remain just as they are. Dead, dying, brittle. The magic that can turn someone into a season is, perhaps, even beyond her comprehension.)
He corrects her without hesitation. No, he does not love the autumn. He bears it like a burden instead. And she tilts her fine head, briefly searching his face, her pale pink gaze lingering briefly on the depthless orange eyes staring back at her.
Perhaps she should feel some sense of trepidation. Perhaps she should be afraid.
But her curiosity is insatiable, it always has been. It is the same curiosity now that it had been when she’d ventured closer to the thing of summer. The heat had wilted the blossoms in her hair then, too. (She mourns them now just as she had then, a sharp stab of sorrow spiraling through her chest, cannibalizing every inch of her sweetness.)
In the short time they have faced each other, she has learned this: it does not do well to assume anything at all. So, instead, as she continues to him, she asks something rather than making any further declarations about someone she knows absolutely nothing about.
“Have you always been this way?” she asks, the pale gaze skirting down across his shoulder where the leaves rustle softly. She does not try to call life into the blossoms in her hair. For the moment, she lets him rule the landscape, the flora, no matter how fiercely she wants to coax them back to life.
@Etojo