she fell for the idea of him
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
She is not a stranger to fear, but Ripley inspires a kind that is altogether different from what she is accustomed to.
It is not the kind that tangles with want; it is not the kind that hides itself as a game to be played. It’s raw and unrefined, the kind that calls forth every natural instinct that has lain dormant for hundreds of years, the kind that tells her she should run. This was her daughter, once, but logically she knows that it’s not her daughter anymore. If it decided to attack her, there would be nothing Ryatah could do.
No way to talk herself out of the situation. No way of possibly being brought back. No chance of reasoning at all.
But of course, she doesn’t run. She ignores every instinct and instead she stands solid, watching the creature as it studies her. Ripley was difficult to read, but she thinks she recognizes that something in her black eyes that feels more curious rather than threatening, though Ryatah knows that could change in an instant.
She listens to the strange, alien noises she makes in her throat, but then there is something that she hears that makes her heart stop. It could have been her mind playing tricks on her, she thinks; her heart conjuring up what she wishes she could hear. But then Ripley is stepping towards her, and she feels her heart begin to thud wildly in her chest, and there is a hope that slowly builds and blossoms there. For a moment her breathing slows, afraid anything too sudden would send Ripley fleeing back into Pangea; as though the creature could ever be similar to a flighty deer.
When Ripley reaches her head towards her Ryatah hesitates, but then she moves too, until her white nose is touching the black of hers. Slowly, she expels the breath she had been holding, her lips gently feeling the armor across her face before she withdraws. “I wish I could tell you how much I miss you, and have you understand,” she manages to say around the ache that is building in her throat. She knows that, in a way, Ripley is happy; she doesn’t know any better, and she doesn’t miss her past life. It’s just her own selfish heart that hurts to see her like this.
It is not the kind that tangles with want; it is not the kind that hides itself as a game to be played. It’s raw and unrefined, the kind that calls forth every natural instinct that has lain dormant for hundreds of years, the kind that tells her she should run. This was her daughter, once, but logically she knows that it’s not her daughter anymore. If it decided to attack her, there would be nothing Ryatah could do.
No way to talk herself out of the situation. No way of possibly being brought back. No chance of reasoning at all.
But of course, she doesn’t run. She ignores every instinct and instead she stands solid, watching the creature as it studies her. Ripley was difficult to read, but she thinks she recognizes that something in her black eyes that feels more curious rather than threatening, though Ryatah knows that could change in an instant.
She listens to the strange, alien noises she makes in her throat, but then there is something that she hears that makes her heart stop. It could have been her mind playing tricks on her, she thinks; her heart conjuring up what she wishes she could hear. But then Ripley is stepping towards her, and she feels her heart begin to thud wildly in her chest, and there is a hope that slowly builds and blossoms there. For a moment her breathing slows, afraid anything too sudden would send Ripley fleeing back into Pangea; as though the creature could ever be similar to a flighty deer.
When Ripley reaches her head towards her Ryatah hesitates, but then she moves too, until her white nose is touching the black of hers. Slowly, she expels the breath she had been holding, her lips gently feeling the armor across her face before she withdraws. “I wish I could tell you how much I miss you, and have you understand,” she manages to say around the ache that is building in her throat. She knows that, in a way, Ripley is happy; she doesn’t know any better, and she doesn’t miss her past life. It’s just her own selfish heart that hurts to see her like this.
ryatah