05-22-2021, 02:34 PM
elodie
It is a teasing thing, she knows. She can see it in his smile, the way he asks it. She has never encountered a magic that allows for conversations with the moon, but the thought spurs her pulse into a frenzy all the same.
(She knows that even if he were to ask it, the moon would say no. She is not a thing meant to be missed, Elodie. She is a thing made to be left. Her father had gone before she’d ever had the chance to meet him and her mother had eventually gone, too.)
“I think I know how it would answer,” she says but there is no grief in it, no trace of the sadness she’d seen in his smile. The same way they’d all answer, she thinks without self-pity. She had so fiercely missed her mother in the beginning, had searched tirelessly through the dark for any trace of her, only to realize that not everyone could be built for keeping. “I’m not the sort of thing made to be missed,” she tells him then, rolling her dark shoulders in a shrug, such a plain truth.
She shifts her weight, studying him in the glow -- both his own and the flicker of her new flame. “You didn’t miss the sun?” she asks, head tilted. It is an assumption, one she knows better than to make. Had she missed the sun? Would the light have made it any easier to find the mother who had slipped so easily into the darkness? There, that same twinge of uneasiness in the cavern of her chest when she thinks of how readily she had gone.
(She knows that even if he were to ask it, the moon would say no. She is not a thing meant to be missed, Elodie. She is a thing made to be left. Her father had gone before she’d ever had the chance to meet him and her mother had eventually gone, too.)
“I think I know how it would answer,” she says but there is no grief in it, no trace of the sadness she’d seen in his smile. The same way they’d all answer, she thinks without self-pity. She had so fiercely missed her mother in the beginning, had searched tirelessly through the dark for any trace of her, only to realize that not everyone could be built for keeping. “I’m not the sort of thing made to be missed,” she tells him then, rolling her dark shoulders in a shrug, such a plain truth.
She shifts her weight, studying him in the glow -- both his own and the flicker of her new flame. “You didn’t miss the sun?” she asks, head tilted. It is an assumption, one she knows better than to make. Had she missed the sun? Would the light have made it any easier to find the mother who had slipped so easily into the darkness? There, that same twinge of uneasiness in the cavern of her chest when she thinks of how readily she had gone.
I’ll let my hunger take me there
@[firion]