[P] Through the Looking Glass .:Elena:.

[Elena]

every day it feels like I’m holding back an ocean

Perhaps if she had a quieter childhood, Elena would have tamed the wildfires that burn in her chest.

She would have learned to be graceful, to be able to accept to defeat with a quiet bow of her head. She would not ignite the world in bold and brazen fire. This is not the case though, and Elena sometimes looks so bright that she can be seen glowing and burning from miles away.

There is a scar on her shoulder, but it is no match for the scars that riddle her internally. They are trivial to the way she has broken apart, the tearing of flesh a laughing matter when she thinks about the way her heart has imploded. There are ghosts in her eyes and in her chest, and she can feel them screaming with every inch of her. Their words ring in her mind, but they are not the only thing that haunts her when her mind is quiet. Memories press into her greedily, selfishly—they claw at her until she can only close her eyes and shake until all the bad things are gone.

“I would say so, but I am biased to be,” she says to the boy she knows so little about. Her words are soft and silver, etched in the light she was named for. “Shame, I have always kind of enjoyed dragons,” she says. (“Do dragons exist?” “Of course dragons exist!”) It is not the first time she remembers this memory, but it grows fuzzy under the hot sun and Elena isn't sure anymore if she can remember it just right. “Your mother sounds like a great story teller,” she says. ‘Mine too,’ she thinks, but she saves it for another day, tucked away in a pocket that she will forget about before she falls asleep tonight.

A gentle thread of regret threads through Elena when he mentions the sky caving in, but he moves on from this before has to find some kind of appropriate reply. “I think that is exactly what wandering is,” she says appreciatively. “Walking without purpose,” she says like she should know. And maybe she does, that is, after all, how Novus came into her life. “I was born far from here, in the land of my ancestors,” she says, the stories of Legado and the war with Bloodvale. She is a princess in only the eyes of her parents, their princess of sun and warmth and summer. “Elena,” she offers her name with little else. “I think if I would have been anything I would have liked to be a knight.” A knight, in theory it is grand, but Elena has seen the strains of battle written across her father’s furrowed brow and the soldier’s sullen shoulders. She was no knight. Elena was not made for battle, she was made for the broken.



* e l e n a
in the dark I’ll pray for the return of the light
the sunflower daughter of benjamin and beylani
medic of dusk.

@Liatris