there is still the sun that shines,
and whispering rain in the evenings,
and blossoms and birds at the window
that greet one in the gentle mornings
and whispering rain in the evenings,
and blossoms and birds at the window
that greet one in the gentle mornings
His words do not make her falter, only make her tip her head slightly as her pencil moves over the paper again. Perhaps you have only been blinded to what is truly there, she rebutted, lavender eyes glancing up at him. He may be a wraith but she sees only the wandering soul beneath silver skin.
Fiona wonders what beautiful things he has touched and not realized their beauty. She does not wonder if he touches them and makes them black and ruined, as he does.
Then his breath is in her ear and his voice sends a shiver down her spine as a cold winter wind might: unbidden. Fiona's eyes trace the shape of the tree as he points it out, looks at the way its barren branches reach up toward the sky, grasping for the sun and stars all day and night long. When he stops speaking she is still silent, always silent, but then Fiona begins to write once more.
What of the tree's ability to still stand tall against the wind and rain? What of those, hungry on the streets, who give their meal to another hungrier? What of forgiveness, she challenges him every step of the way. What of the ones who survive, and the healers who give everything that they have for them. And what of those that care for the orphans, feed and clothe them? Is the world not both? One does not devalue the other.
She pauses, breathes, waits, and then, What of a girl whose mother abandoned her because she could not speak, who was always the odd one out? Should she not try to find beautiful things in the world because of the things that are not? And then she looks him in the eye, a fiercer quirk to her brow, a braver set to her shoulders.
Raum is a predator but Fiona is not his prey, not a mouse who will run and hide. He might write his wrongdoings on the wall in blood and black but even he could not cover up all the good still left behind. Perhaps you should spend a day giving instead of taking and then tell me it is not, were the last words she wrote on the page in her scrawling script.
Fiona wonders what beautiful things he has touched and not realized their beauty. She does not wonder if he touches them and makes them black and ruined, as he does.
Then his breath is in her ear and his voice sends a shiver down her spine as a cold winter wind might: unbidden. Fiona's eyes trace the shape of the tree as he points it out, looks at the way its barren branches reach up toward the sky, grasping for the sun and stars all day and night long. When he stops speaking she is still silent, always silent, but then Fiona begins to write once more.
What of the tree's ability to still stand tall against the wind and rain? What of those, hungry on the streets, who give their meal to another hungrier? What of forgiveness, she challenges him every step of the way. What of the ones who survive, and the healers who give everything that they have for them. And what of those that care for the orphans, feed and clothe them? Is the world not both? One does not devalue the other.
She pauses, breathes, waits, and then, What of a girl whose mother abandoned her because she could not speak, who was always the odd one out? Should she not try to find beautiful things in the world because of the things that are not? And then she looks him in the eye, a fiercer quirk to her brow, a braver set to her shoulders.
Raum is a predator but Fiona is not his prey, not a mouse who will run and hide. He might write his wrongdoings on the wall in blood and black but even he could not cover up all the good still left behind. Perhaps you should spend a day giving instead of taking and then tell me it is not, were the last words she wrote on the page in her scrawling script.
@Raum
