09-07-2021, 02:31 AM
R I P T I D E
It has been years since Varick and Sabbath moved their family into Nerine, and still Riptide found it difficult to return. Guilt often drove him back, since he had absolutely no reason to not go. He is the son of two parents that loved him fiercely, and who did their best to love each other. His family is, truthfully, relatively perfect, and perhaps that is partially what causes him to erect that imaginary guard between them. Because he is most certainly not perfect. He is flawed in countless ways, and instead of improving he seems to unravel more day by day.
And yet, every time he does return he finds himself wondering why he had put it off for so long, because the relief was often immediate. Whatever burdens he shouldered—most of them self-inflicted, crafted by his own mind—seemed to be lifted and carried away by the frigid coastal winds, beaten against the cliff sides and forgotten.
Winter was not his ideal time to travel, but he could not shake the feeling that he needed to go to Nerine. And so, ignoring the cold and the way it turned his blood sluggish and tired, he began to move north.
Following the river, he keeps to himself, not wishing to disturb the residents of the places he passes through. It is not until he hears a voice, lovely and haunting and familiar and saying his name that he stops. His sage green eyes find hers, and he is reminded of their bodies tangled together, the way her skin had tasted and the way her hair and smelled, and he is frozen. “Galadriel,” he says her name, and even on his serpent’s tongue it is lilting and soft. “You’re in Taiga,” he continues, stating the obvious. He clenches his jaw, working to gather himself as he takes a hesitant step towards her. “How...are you?” He settles on asking her, stupidly, and almost immediately he regrets it.
And yet, every time he does return he finds himself wondering why he had put it off for so long, because the relief was often immediate. Whatever burdens he shouldered—most of them self-inflicted, crafted by his own mind—seemed to be lifted and carried away by the frigid coastal winds, beaten against the cliff sides and forgotten.
Winter was not his ideal time to travel, but he could not shake the feeling that he needed to go to Nerine. And so, ignoring the cold and the way it turned his blood sluggish and tired, he began to move north.
Following the river, he keeps to himself, not wishing to disturb the residents of the places he passes through. It is not until he hears a voice, lovely and haunting and familiar and saying his name that he stops. His sage green eyes find hers, and he is reminded of their bodies tangled together, the way her skin had tasted and the way her hair and smelled, and he is frozen. “Galadriel,” he says her name, and even on his serpent’s tongue it is lilting and soft. “You’re in Taiga,” he continues, stating the obvious. He clenches his jaw, working to gather himself as he takes a hesitant step towards her. “How...are you?” He settles on asking her, stupidly, and almost immediately he regrets it.
— i slithered here from eden just to sit outside your door —
@galadriel