05-14-2020, 12:22 AM
[align=center][div style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11px; width: 60%; text-align: justify; line-height:120%"]Course had grown the ebony assortment of strands, yet unimpeded the warmth skirting along the miniscule patch proceeding between tufted ears. Within the loose encirclement of his embrace they felt a mere toy, stuffing held in by false skin that knew only this, a delicate, twisted recollection the dark threads of fading terror that had drawn him to them.
A moth to a flame. No, that was not right. The sky touched with the dark hues of deepening night and among wispy clouds obscuring glimmering points of cool light fragile the crescent of moon.
It bore no matter how far they reached with aching arms, widening the arc yet the chill surface of the sheets was all they registered. There was no warmth, his presence a burning furnace that left them pleasantly warmed though the spark of excess heat left their skin reddened and sore, no salt among the familiar notes of fire, something all his own beneath. For a time they simply lay, stretched forth in a position most odd for coiled their hind legs until tucked into a semi-ball were they, indulging in a quiet dream.
He was not there. Had never been, a mere fragment of pleasant thoughts interwoven with fading recollecting.
There was no haste within the uncomfortable manoeuvre of disentangling themselves from the tangled mess of excess blankets piled atop the makeshift bed, the stale air painted with soft utterances of pain. Days had passed - or may it have been weeks, time an odd and confusing construction given no thought - had it had seen a downward spiral within their condition. Expected, in many ways, the dark bloom of bruises an interwoven network of sickeningly hued patches against a pale backdrop. Yet always did it linger, the budding ache encircling the back of their eyes, working cruel fingers through their skull until they knew only it.
A concussion, that is what it had been called. Of minor significance a title that may be placed to their condition, however, useless against the agonised progression of their life as their progress ground to a seeming halt. Time was all they needed, but they could not look upon those around them, the fretful gazes filled with false hopes, words echoing with a fine web of lies. They may recover but not whole, odd the resting placement of wing settled against their side, pace odd and halting though they had grown accustomed to the manner they need hold their leg. Maybe it would be best they had been among the debris and rubble their tired eyes moved across, barely perceived as they exited the temporary housing to allow easy accept by the sages. Another name to carve into unyielding stone, a ghost on the wind that may not torment any further.
Noche.
Unbidden the thought arose among the loose static of interwoven thought, a dull rumble of lacklustre sound parting beneath a sudden sound. Premature the conclusion of their quiet wandering, against the delicate skin between their toes grains of sand grated, an annoyance made useful as their mind settled and focused. A voice. By distance and the uncaring currents of salt laced wind had the words grown distorted, a mere echo of baseless sound. Their head ached, pounded with a dull, ringing song, unstable the legs that moved without prior thought.
It was not him. The cruel savagery of flame laced teeth buried into the muscle of shoulder, the crackling of dying embers against their skin. He had left them all behind. Nothing but anger in eyes that had grown so familiar, choked the weak pleas falling from their trembling lips. But something in them dared to dream it could be him.
Too slow, momentum incapable of building in the fashion they wanted, progress impeded by so much. Muscle growing taunt, nerves dancing with an undying fire, aside thrown the prior caution with broken leg. It dragged, painful as it twisted and jostled, cut a deep groove into the sand, each breath a pained whine painted across clenched teeth. None of it mattered, all that they cared to know if it was him.
Voices. Familiar the grating baratine of privateer - rejected the notion of connection, familiarity not built as of yet - and warmth infused a rumble that encircled deep chest, brief the halt of their progression. Unsure the shaky steps that drew Eulia forth, silenced all but the hollow ring of his name within their head, sharp the twisting coil of fist about the trembling best of their heart. It was not him, surely it could not be, a mere trick of the light weak eyes deemed a wanted vision.
"Mi noche…" From trembling lips did soft murmur fall, everything screaming at them to go, confirm the false vision for truth, yet stone seeming the paws settled among pale grains. Against all hope, of odds that cut like broken glass, he was here. The tears fell in a bitter rain, twisted countenance shifting between feigned anger and the bubbling anguish amassed in tightening throat. They wanted to be angry, yell at him for leaving as though any right of such did he hold. But they could merely look on with a bitten off sob, unsure if they could approach any further, the pain a constant reminder this was real.
He was real.
A moth to a flame. No, that was not right. The sky touched with the dark hues of deepening night and among wispy clouds obscuring glimmering points of cool light fragile the crescent of moon.
It bore no matter how far they reached with aching arms, widening the arc yet the chill surface of the sheets was all they registered. There was no warmth, his presence a burning furnace that left them pleasantly warmed though the spark of excess heat left their skin reddened and sore, no salt among the familiar notes of fire, something all his own beneath. For a time they simply lay, stretched forth in a position most odd for coiled their hind legs until tucked into a semi-ball were they, indulging in a quiet dream.
He was not there. Had never been, a mere fragment of pleasant thoughts interwoven with fading recollecting.
There was no haste within the uncomfortable manoeuvre of disentangling themselves from the tangled mess of excess blankets piled atop the makeshift bed, the stale air painted with soft utterances of pain. Days had passed - or may it have been weeks, time an odd and confusing construction given no thought - had it had seen a downward spiral within their condition. Expected, in many ways, the dark bloom of bruises an interwoven network of sickeningly hued patches against a pale backdrop. Yet always did it linger, the budding ache encircling the back of their eyes, working cruel fingers through their skull until they knew only it.
A concussion, that is what it had been called. Of minor significance a title that may be placed to their condition, however, useless against the agonised progression of their life as their progress ground to a seeming halt. Time was all they needed, but they could not look upon those around them, the fretful gazes filled with false hopes, words echoing with a fine web of lies. They may recover but not whole, odd the resting placement of wing settled against their side, pace odd and halting though they had grown accustomed to the manner they need hold their leg. Maybe it would be best they had been among the debris and rubble their tired eyes moved across, barely perceived as they exited the temporary housing to allow easy accept by the sages. Another name to carve into unyielding stone, a ghost on the wind that may not torment any further.
Noche.
Unbidden the thought arose among the loose static of interwoven thought, a dull rumble of lacklustre sound parting beneath a sudden sound. Premature the conclusion of their quiet wandering, against the delicate skin between their toes grains of sand grated, an annoyance made useful as their mind settled and focused. A voice. By distance and the uncaring currents of salt laced wind had the words grown distorted, a mere echo of baseless sound. Their head ached, pounded with a dull, ringing song, unstable the legs that moved without prior thought.
It was not him. The cruel savagery of flame laced teeth buried into the muscle of shoulder, the crackling of dying embers against their skin. He had left them all behind. Nothing but anger in eyes that had grown so familiar, choked the weak pleas falling from their trembling lips. But something in them dared to dream it could be him.
Too slow, momentum incapable of building in the fashion they wanted, progress impeded by so much. Muscle growing taunt, nerves dancing with an undying fire, aside thrown the prior caution with broken leg. It dragged, painful as it twisted and jostled, cut a deep groove into the sand, each breath a pained whine painted across clenched teeth. None of it mattered, all that they cared to know if it was him.
Voices. Familiar the grating baratine of privateer - rejected the notion of connection, familiarity not built as of yet - and warmth infused a rumble that encircled deep chest, brief the halt of their progression. Unsure the shaky steps that drew Eulia forth, silenced all but the hollow ring of his name within their head, sharp the twisting coil of fist about the trembling best of their heart. It was not him, surely it could not be, a mere trick of the light weak eyes deemed a wanted vision.
"Mi noche…" From trembling lips did soft murmur fall, everything screaming at them to go, confirm the false vision for truth, yet stone seeming the paws settled among pale grains. Against all hope, of odds that cut like broken glass, he was here. The tears fell in a bitter rain, twisted countenance shifting between feigned anger and the bubbling anguish amassed in tightening throat. They wanted to be angry, yell at him for leaving as though any right of such did he hold. But they could merely look on with a bitten off sob, unsure if they could approach any further, the pain a constant reminder this was real.
He was real.