01-04-2021, 12:26 AM
take my soul & make it undone
be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun. i know, i know you can bring the fire, i can bring the bones. i know, i know you'll make the fire, my bones will make it grow.
Wishbone has never fully understood the lore of their home. The mysterious fairies, the unfathomable magic, and the way they have both somehow crawled out of the Afterlife (though not unscathed) are concepts that she struggles to comprehend. If Wishbone had been an analytic type, she might have made it her mission to discover these entities — to learn their origins and map their boundaries. But she is the carefree type, much like Svedka is, and they might spend their days together questioning the fickleness of fairies and magic and death without truly wanting to understand.
Yet she cannot deny the questions that flood her mind as she leans against her brother. Warrick’s bones would have called to her if the spirit she had seen on the river had truly been him. She still doesn’t know where her ability to shape the bones of the dead has come from, nor the midnight-clad body she woke with. Wishbone has learned that there are not many things she can place her trust in (men or magic or kingdoms or even her own body), yet this has never stopped her from moving forward.
Even now, she forces herself to focus on the present while the voices of the dead echo in her ears. The way Svedka quivers beside her draws her attention away from the fatigue that seeps deep in her bones. Wishbone’s head is swimming, but she pulls the fragments together to focus on her brother. She assumes a shorter stay would be only mildly agonizing, but the sound of his voice (distant, tight, nervous) and the way his sunshine sides tremble with anxiety gives her reason to think his time in the Afterlife had never been pleasant.
Reliving memories is never easy — and healing from trauma can be even harder. She remembers too well the skittering of her heart in those first years and the endless nights when she awoke from nightmares coated in sweat and smelling of fear. The feverish dreams still cling to her now, haunting her nights so her sleep is suffocated beneath the weight of a multicolored stallion and the rush of saltwater into her lungs. Wishbone leans her gold-dressed face against Svedka’s strong shoulder, offering him what her touch may bring to soothe him. “I was there for six years.” Her voice is frail but unwavering, even as she rolls her weight onto her own feet. Focusing on the past makes it easier to carry the weight of exhaustion, especially when she knows their father is alive. “The damned kelpie got me. I” — her throat feels thick at the thought of Delphi and Rivuline — “have twin daughters I never saw grow up.”
When her amber eyes turn to Svedka’s gaze, they are dark with emotion and brimming with understanding. “What happened?”
Yet she cannot deny the questions that flood her mind as she leans against her brother. Warrick’s bones would have called to her if the spirit she had seen on the river had truly been him. She still doesn’t know where her ability to shape the bones of the dead has come from, nor the midnight-clad body she woke with. Wishbone has learned that there are not many things she can place her trust in (men or magic or kingdoms or even her own body), yet this has never stopped her from moving forward.
Even now, she forces herself to focus on the present while the voices of the dead echo in her ears. The way Svedka quivers beside her draws her attention away from the fatigue that seeps deep in her bones. Wishbone’s head is swimming, but she pulls the fragments together to focus on her brother. She assumes a shorter stay would be only mildly agonizing, but the sound of his voice (distant, tight, nervous) and the way his sunshine sides tremble with anxiety gives her reason to think his time in the Afterlife had never been pleasant.
Reliving memories is never easy — and healing from trauma can be even harder. She remembers too well the skittering of her heart in those first years and the endless nights when she awoke from nightmares coated in sweat and smelling of fear. The feverish dreams still cling to her now, haunting her nights so her sleep is suffocated beneath the weight of a multicolored stallion and the rush of saltwater into her lungs. Wishbone leans her gold-dressed face against Svedka’s strong shoulder, offering him what her touch may bring to soothe him. “I was there for six years.” Her voice is frail but unwavering, even as she rolls her weight onto her own feet. Focusing on the past makes it easier to carry the weight of exhaustion, especially when she knows their father is alive. “The damned kelpie got me. I” — her throat feels thick at the thought of Delphi and Rivuline — “have twin daughters I never saw grow up.”
When her amber eyes turn to Svedka’s gaze, they are dark with emotion and brimming with understanding. “What happened?”
@[Svedka]