The breakdown is always a disappointment; Lyr has found the catharsis it is meant to bring never comes, as whatever comforts that can be found for his particular loss are hollow. He remembers upon the first, motherly shhhhh of her lips the last time he had spoken to his father and the way the priest had turned, at a loss at last, and shouted in a way utterly uncharacteristic. He had said, Lyr, there is nothing I can do for you if you choose to be inconsolable!
If he chooses to be inconsolable… as if the loss of his sister, the one person who had ever known him, could be consoled?
Yet here is another trying, and the comfort remains a hollow one. Even in their resemblance they will never be the same. Even in their similarities his heart is rent apart and she says, Do you want to tell me about her? Lyr turns his face away. He cannot look at her in her divine perfection, in her simple but certainly not ordinary beauty. They are so much alike.
They are so much alike. They are so much alike, even in this stranger’s asking, in a voice like a salve to his wounds. I can go. I can. And he nearly begs her not to. He would, if his throat were not raw with the tears he holds back. He would, if he were not fighting something insurmountable within him, something that swells to the brims of his being like high tide and threatens to reach further, further.
After what seems like a small eternity, Lyr clears his throat. He ducks his head and blinks the tears from his eyes, hard, until he can raise them at last to meet hers.
It takes a type of wild resolve; wild, because at any moment it might break again.
He laughs, a little shakily. “I… a-apologise.” The childhood stutter reemerges with his uncertainty, with his embarrassment. He closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath, until he feels he can open his eyes and regard her without emotion, without sentiment.
When Lyr takes her in again, he knows that will never be a possibility. The only difference between them is the heart-shaped mark on this mare’s forehead and even that does not seem like so much of a difference, but more of an addition. He struggles through the next sentence, knowing she owes him nothing. Yet he hopes with the desperation of a man utterly alone that she stays... and paradoxically, he knows whatever comfort this stranger brings will be of a tragic sort, so familiar it threatens to rip him apart.“She…” Lyr chooses his words deliberately, carefully. Because of it, they come out stiff and awkward, with too much space between them. He would have never talked to his own flesh and blood this way, no; she would have drawn from him who he really was with her lighthearted, easy laughter. She would have known exactly what to say, and she is the only one, and... “She was the sun personified. Her name was Capella, and she knew everyone by name, even those people who no one else bothered to know. She… wanted to be a Champion of Community. To help the people. And… well, she died.”
Yes, that is how the story ends.
It has never mattered how many times he has told it before. It is the ending he cannot rewrite, no matter how many nights he lays awake trying to. Lyr clears his throat and looks past this stranger who is not so much a stranger, toward the sea. He does this so he can ask with careful politeness, “I am sorry for the intrusion. I can… be… going if y-you’d like.”
Lyr should have allowed the illusion to live on a little longer; he should have stood back and watched, and never have let her seen him. Because this, this felt like the undoing of years of rebuilding. It felt as if his foundation shook; as if he were a tree and the wind of some unexpected storm shook him to the roots. Yet he cannot go. He cannot bring himself to even turn away from her, because even this hollow something is better than the nothing that greets him elsewhere.
"Speech" || @Elena
If he chooses to be inconsolable… as if the loss of his sister, the one person who had ever known him, could be consoled?
Yet here is another trying, and the comfort remains a hollow one. Even in their resemblance they will never be the same. Even in their similarities his heart is rent apart and she says, Do you want to tell me about her? Lyr turns his face away. He cannot look at her in her divine perfection, in her simple but certainly not ordinary beauty. They are so much alike.
They are so much alike. They are so much alike, even in this stranger’s asking, in a voice like a salve to his wounds. I can go. I can. And he nearly begs her not to. He would, if his throat were not raw with the tears he holds back. He would, if he were not fighting something insurmountable within him, something that swells to the brims of his being like high tide and threatens to reach further, further.
After what seems like a small eternity, Lyr clears his throat. He ducks his head and blinks the tears from his eyes, hard, until he can raise them at last to meet hers.
It takes a type of wild resolve; wild, because at any moment it might break again.
He laughs, a little shakily. “I… a-apologise.” The childhood stutter reemerges with his uncertainty, with his embarrassment. He closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath, until he feels he can open his eyes and regard her without emotion, without sentiment.
When Lyr takes her in again, he knows that will never be a possibility. The only difference between them is the heart-shaped mark on this mare’s forehead and even that does not seem like so much of a difference, but more of an addition. He struggles through the next sentence, knowing she owes him nothing. Yet he hopes with the desperation of a man utterly alone that she stays... and paradoxically, he knows whatever comfort this stranger brings will be of a tragic sort, so familiar it threatens to rip him apart.
Yes, that is how the story ends.
It has never mattered how many times he has told it before. It is the ending he cannot rewrite, no matter how many nights he lays awake trying to. Lyr clears his throat and looks past this stranger who is not so much a stranger, toward the sea. He does this so he can ask with careful politeness, “I am sorry for the intrusion. I can… be… going if y-you’d like.”
Lyr should have allowed the illusion to live on a little longer; he should have stood back and watched, and never have let her seen him. Because this, this felt like the undoing of years of rebuilding. It felt as if his foundation shook; as if he were a tree and the wind of some unexpected storm shook him to the roots. Yet he cannot go. He cannot bring himself to even turn away from her, because even this hollow something is better than the nothing that greets him elsewhere.
"Speech" || @
when i leave i'm taking all the atlases
everyone who touches me walks away unharmed and singing.
