”Does it seem the same?” Such an innocent question - but oh, how it makes the rose-colored boy’s heart ache. He can’t stop the memories that flood his mind, the nostalgia that makes him dizzy, the wave of emotion that rises suddenly in his soul. His throat feels so tight - for a moment he doesn’t dare speak, for he can hardly breathe.
He wishes he could lead her into his memories, to show her how different everything feels despite how familiar everything looks.
“It is, and it also is not.”
He did not notice how quiet his voice had become; the world has shrunk to encompass just him and the dark-haired girl walking beside him, and they are observing another world that tumbles along without them. If he speaks too loudly, if he moves too quickly, he risks interrupting it all.
Even his footsteps seem light and too-quiet, like he’s not really there, but only a ghost, trapped in the memory of this place.
“Some say she’s a storyteller,” he tells her, his voice soft. “Others say she’s only a story herself. And still others say she creates the stories she tells, creating wonderful things from nothing.” He’s a step behind her, allowing her to take the first step up to those gilded doors.
And as she does, he watches her; his violently-bright eyes nearly hidden beneath long lashes. And it’s as if for the first time on their walk, he’s really seeing her, and seeing who she is. From her dark, spiraling horn rising proudly from her brow to the dusting of scales hiding along the curve of her belly.
His words are slow, almost hesitant. But with each one, it gets a little easier, and he grows a little more confident. The secret is becoming more clear in his mind - and he realizes that he’s answering his own question.
“I’ve heard tales that she’s a mermaid.” He looks pointedly to the scales, a glance that lingers just a moment too long before he looks away. “Or that she used to be, and is no more.”
He takes his first step, then another, and another; soon, he’s standing beside her again, and they’re in front of the palace but they don’t enter, not yet.
Already he knows that this is not where they part; they will pass through the doors together, and inside it will be the same as the last time he was here, but also not.
“They say that she looks like you.” He whispers. “And that her name is Isra.”
And even the name sounds right as it rolls off his tongue; like it was meant for her, and meant for Denocte.
He smiles a small, shy smile, and nods to the door.
"Shall we, Your Grace?"
hearts are breaking
wars are raging on
you’ve got me nervous
i’m right at the end of my rope
hey, man, we can’t all be like you
i wish we were all rose-colored too
my rose-colored boy
@isra ! going to end this here
i am so sorry for how long this thread has taken, the next will be much faster
”here am i!“
