01-11-2020, 02:57 PM
she fell for the idea of him
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
Beneath Gail’s shield, she grows incredibly still. They are waiting for something, it feels like, but she isn’t sure what, and she doesn’t ask. This is different from the last time she had died; the last time when he had let the ocean fill her lungs and then brought her back almost immediately. Awakening on the shores of the afterlife, and then again on the cold floor of the lair, had felt mere heartbeats apart.
This time, it is long enough that a quiet sort of panic has begun to set in. It twists into a knot in that space in her chest where a beating heart should have been, spreading like frost throughout her veins, cool and choking. Carnage wasn’t bringing her back, and Gail wasn’t letting her go. She felt caught in the crossfire of some sort of wicked game, and the survivalist part of her mind was trying to work through the best angle to play. It was easy, usually, to just choose Carnage.
But he isn’t here, and Gail is.
She says that he is gone, and hesitantly, Ryatah opens her eyes. When she was alive she would sometimes feel him, but she has never been sure if that shiver that chases the length of her spine is just a conditioned response to what happens when she thinks about him, or if it was because she truly knew he was there. Whatever the case, she doesn’t feel anything here in the afterlife – no pulse to quicken and no breath to catch in her throat – and all she can do is take Gail’s word for it.
For a moment she is simply quiet when she looks at her. The irony in their contrast is not lost on her; endlessly black to her bright white, a priestess of death to her angel. It makes her wonder, fleetingly, if Carnage sent her here on purpose, just to see how the two of them would take to each other. But Ryatah is not a jealous creature, and when she looks at Gail there is no envy in her stare, but instead just a vast curiosity, because how couldn’t she be?
“You’ll find that I’m not all that interesting,” she says with a small smile, and if she were the manipulative sort it would sound deceitful. It would be difficult to spread before anyone the pieces and parts of her life and summarize it as uninteresting, but Ryatah has never seen herself as anything particularly intriguing.
Deflecting the conversation away from herself, she looks across the afterlife, remembering the last time she had been here, in search of Dhumin – and how she had walked out an angel. “If everyone else can leave, doesn’t that mean you could too?”
This time, it is long enough that a quiet sort of panic has begun to set in. It twists into a knot in that space in her chest where a beating heart should have been, spreading like frost throughout her veins, cool and choking. Carnage wasn’t bringing her back, and Gail wasn’t letting her go. She felt caught in the crossfire of some sort of wicked game, and the survivalist part of her mind was trying to work through the best angle to play. It was easy, usually, to just choose Carnage.
But he isn’t here, and Gail is.
She says that he is gone, and hesitantly, Ryatah opens her eyes. When she was alive she would sometimes feel him, but she has never been sure if that shiver that chases the length of her spine is just a conditioned response to what happens when she thinks about him, or if it was because she truly knew he was there. Whatever the case, she doesn’t feel anything here in the afterlife – no pulse to quicken and no breath to catch in her throat – and all she can do is take Gail’s word for it.
For a moment she is simply quiet when she looks at her. The irony in their contrast is not lost on her; endlessly black to her bright white, a priestess of death to her angel. It makes her wonder, fleetingly, if Carnage sent her here on purpose, just to see how the two of them would take to each other. But Ryatah is not a jealous creature, and when she looks at Gail there is no envy in her stare, but instead just a vast curiosity, because how couldn’t she be?
“You’ll find that I’m not all that interesting,” she says with a small smile, and if she were the manipulative sort it would sound deceitful. It would be difficult to spread before anyone the pieces and parts of her life and summarize it as uninteresting, but Ryatah has never seen herself as anything particularly intriguing.
Deflecting the conversation away from herself, she looks across the afterlife, remembering the last time she had been here, in search of Dhumin – and how she had walked out an angel. “If everyone else can leave, doesn’t that mean you could too?”
ryatah