09-25-2021, 02:21 PM
kensley
i swore the days were over of courting empty dreams
It is the first time he hears her laugh and he savors the sound.
It had been evident the first time he’d met her that she was greater than she seemed. Silence had not suited her and she had found other ways to communicate. It is simply the sort of creature she is, forging her own path when the world tries to tell her that she cannot.
He does not recoil when she reaches for him again, just like she had as a child. Because this is familiar, this he remembers, and he closes his eyes when she touches him. He closes his eyes and relaxes into the memory.
Straia and then the White Magician and it hitches the breath in his throat.
Because there had been the White Magician and then the black magician, too.
Because he had met his granddaughters only once before the White Magician had spirited them away and his son had plunged that stretch of Pangea into darkness.
She draws away from him, asks if he knows the White Magician, but he does not open his eyes. For a time, he remains that way, remembering. Remembering the darkness and the way that all things had changed because of it. He had changed because of it. And he had blamed his son for it. His son and the White Magician.
Finally, he forces his eyes open and smiles, something placid and plain. He smiles and he nods and he says, “yes, I know Beyza.” He, of course, knows the other side of things better, his son, Jamie.
Had he ever actually met the White Magician? It’s hard to remember now, but it does not feel like a lie to say that he knows her. He had seen her plainly in the three beautiful daughters she had brought into the world.
He thinks of them now and, just as she had done to him, he implants the thought in her mind. Neuna, Decima, Maurtia. The Fates that his son and the White Magician had constructed together. And then he swallows, pulling the thought back into his own head. “Beyza is the mother of my granddaughters.”
It had been evident the first time he’d met her that she was greater than she seemed. Silence had not suited her and she had found other ways to communicate. It is simply the sort of creature she is, forging her own path when the world tries to tell her that she cannot.
He does not recoil when she reaches for him again, just like she had as a child. Because this is familiar, this he remembers, and he closes his eyes when she touches him. He closes his eyes and relaxes into the memory.
Straia and then the White Magician and it hitches the breath in his throat.
Because there had been the White Magician and then the black magician, too.
Because he had met his granddaughters only once before the White Magician had spirited them away and his son had plunged that stretch of Pangea into darkness.
She draws away from him, asks if he knows the White Magician, but he does not open his eyes. For a time, he remains that way, remembering. Remembering the darkness and the way that all things had changed because of it. He had changed because of it. And he had blamed his son for it. His son and the White Magician.
Finally, he forces his eyes open and smiles, something placid and plain. He smiles and he nods and he says, “yes, I know Beyza.” He, of course, knows the other side of things better, his son, Jamie.
Had he ever actually met the White Magician? It’s hard to remember now, but it does not feel like a lie to say that he knows her. He had seen her plainly in the three beautiful daughters she had brought into the world.
He thinks of them now and, just as she had done to him, he implants the thought in her mind. Neuna, Decima, Maurtia. The Fates that his son and the White Magician had constructed together. And then he swallows, pulling the thought back into his own head. “Beyza is the mother of my granddaughters.”
i worshipped at the altar of losing everything
@Aela