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    version 22: awakening


    SOCHI -- Year 207


    "He will inevitably decide that it all fell apart because he had orchestrated it and he will carry the blame like a stone in his chest, too. He will add it to the pile and perhaps, someday when there are enough stones to weigh him down, he will walk into the sea and let them drown him" -- Kensley, written by Savage

    [mature]  honey don't feed it, it will come back; Ryatah

    I tried to sell my soul last night
    Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

    He’d done his goddamned best to forget everything that has happened. Some days he can almost imagine he’s succeeding. But he’d never been any damned good at lying, even to himself. It’s easy to say what fucking bullshit it is. What isn’t so bloody easy is pummeling the stupid, dumb, idiotic fucking tendril of hope that had kindled somewhere deep in his chest.

    And so, what has he done, like the absolute stand-up guy he is? He’d made damned well sure to avoid anywhere she might be. Not that she probably wanted anything to do with him at this point. But hell, he didn’t need her planting any more idiotic ideas in his head that he couldn’t seem to shake.

    It’s stupid to imagine there’s anywhere she wouldn’t actually go of course. Still, here he is, trying to do exactly that. At the very least, it’d be amusing to imagine her trying to pick her way through the wretched, putrid mud he’s currently surrounded with.

    On a lark, he’d decided to take a swim in the brackish waters of the pond feeding this particularly fragrant mud pit. It’d been a shitty idea. But then, he’s apparently full of those lately. He has half a mind to find a clean stretch of river. The other half is somewhat masochistically enjoying the stench and godawful fucking picture he must make. Whatever parts of him that might once have been white are now coated in a drying layer of green scum even as mud cakes his limbs and drags at his tail. Stunning, no doubt.

    It isn’t until he starts feeling a little unsteady on his feet that he belatedly remembers why it’s not a great idea to swim in green water. Fucking algae.

    For a minute, his world spins. When it stops, he finds his limbs had folded beneath him where he’d dropped unceremoniously in the mud, suctioning him cozily into the thick, sticky mud. Tugging half-heartedly at one leg, he sighs irritably before giving up. “Shit.”

    He’d figure it out later.


    She had tried to forget about everything that had happened, but it had proven impossible.

    Usually, it was easy to move on from any kind of hurt, because she certainly wasn’t a stranger to it. She has been shattered and rebuilt, broken and remade, more times than she cared to remember. She had learned that tears never solved anything, that acknowledging the yawning chasm in her chest never actually healed it, and that no one else would ever mend her broken heart except for herself.

    But, she could pretend. She could paint a smile and steel her heart, she could break herself on her own terms and not theirs.

    Which is why she rarely told anyone anything. She fell into whatever part she was supposed to be playing, she didn’t look for anyone when they were gone, and she didn’t tell anyone with the ability to hurt her that she cared about them. Everything that had transpired in the cave had further cemented that idea, and though she couldn’t forget it – because the marks across her heart still felt fresh, not yet scarred – she had chosen to stop acknowledging it.

    Of course, she hadn’t thought she would find him out here.
    Not in this dark, deserted section of the river. Not so far away from everyone and everything, out here where the trees grew tall and thick along the banks, the limbs stretching partially over the water like a canopy. The river branches off and gathers in dark, muddy pools, and along the solid edge of the bank of one is where she walks.

    If it weren’t for his voice she doesn’t think she would have recognized him, covered in mud and grime, but his swearing gives him away. She stops, standing along the edge, amber and glowing in the shadows of the trees. She almost turns to go, before he can see her, but before she gets the chance he looks towards her, and her eyes find his. “What are you doing?” There is a forced normalcy to her voice, and any other time she would have found this situation amusing. Instead she just watches him, her sable eyes lacking so much of the emotion that they usually held, because she is afraid that if she lets it back in again, she will lose all control of it.

    even angels have their wicked schemes

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