Hälla
a sentimental heart / a skeptical mind
The darkness breathed.
And she, with it.
An expansion of lungs drawn taut, a bow upon a string, as a hazel body shifted against its bed. Not linen and silk, never the plush comforter of some broad, extravagant spread. She woke as a snake in its nest of sand, the flare of her nostrils drawing in grit, until the grind of her taut jaw punished grains of desert beneath her molars. Hardly a lady rolling from her chaise, her body turned harshly upon the tomb in which she lay.
Death surrounded her. A perimeter of wondrous, fatalistic splendor. The catacombs were a dim lit vision, cast into light by the moony saucers of her dizzied eyes. The lie of her dreams unraveled like thread, spooling at her feet in tattered silk, as though her unconscious self had fought to free her from its tangles. She was trapped in a web, ensnared within the mirages of a Solterran mage.
A distressed viper, her pretty scales starved for sunlight, the parched plush of her lips chapped and painful. Her abdomen heaved as she shifted, hard, upon the hefty weight of her side. Boneless and heavy all at once; a wild dog lost in the dark.
She groaned as she sat upright, as the darkness of her world swam into her vision. Where—where?
(Her appetite for more pushes her onward, drives her further into the catacombs as her brethren lose themselves within the winding, unending tunnels. As separate entities, as lost stars, they parade through the darkness as beacons of Solis’ light. She is but a flame in the shadows, and the darkness takes and takes—devours, until a lonely slumber fetters her to the hard floor of the tomb.
When her eyes slide shut, she is secluded; she is lost. A curse upon her tongue, a plea for vengeance, as he threads his lies betwixt her ears—
And she hates him. She hates him.)
With a tight chest, the woman forced her legs to gather beneath her. Like a teetering newborn, she swallows down the sourness of bile and the rough texture of sediment, drinking it down as though it were nectar: the desert’s sustenance for her waking, enraged soul.
How long had it been? The question was a plume among the disarray of her thoughts, a torch to beat back the frantic, gnawing worry of bewilderment. It was nearly enough to drive her to tears, if the hot press of sand upon her cheek had not sapped the dampness from her skin.
And she hungered, hungered—
Her voice was a strange interjection into the darkness as she was coaxed onto her feet and onward, compelled by the perpetuating allure of a distant star. The sun, heavy within the sky, laden with the obligation of daytime.
“Arjun,” she hissed, her voice whetted down to a hoarse blade, as though the deceiver awaited her upon the vast, unending spread of desert that lay above. She remembered that name, at least; she knew his lies, unironically, to be truth. The rest was a haze, a fog of colors and faces, and an endless litany that filled her with sorrow and love.
She was a juxtaposition of so many things, seeking the stability of certainty beneath her soles. She pushed forth, towards the mouth of the catacombs and the timorous flicker of light that beckoned her, sang to her, from the end of the tunnel.
The sun was a beacon, its rays a hymn, and she whispered the lyrics beneath her breath.
A name, her name. It was all she had.
"Hälla. Hälla."
The solitary word sang with the soft pad of her hooves.
And she, with it.
An expansion of lungs drawn taut, a bow upon a string, as a hazel body shifted against its bed. Not linen and silk, never the plush comforter of some broad, extravagant spread. She woke as a snake in its nest of sand, the flare of her nostrils drawing in grit, until the grind of her taut jaw punished grains of desert beneath her molars. Hardly a lady rolling from her chaise, her body turned harshly upon the tomb in which she lay.
Death surrounded her. A perimeter of wondrous, fatalistic splendor. The catacombs were a dim lit vision, cast into light by the moony saucers of her dizzied eyes. The lie of her dreams unraveled like thread, spooling at her feet in tattered silk, as though her unconscious self had fought to free her from its tangles. She was trapped in a web, ensnared within the mirages of a Solterran mage.
A distressed viper, her pretty scales starved for sunlight, the parched plush of her lips chapped and painful. Her abdomen heaved as she shifted, hard, upon the hefty weight of her side. Boneless and heavy all at once; a wild dog lost in the dark.
She groaned as she sat upright, as the darkness of her world swam into her vision. Where—where?
(Her appetite for more pushes her onward, drives her further into the catacombs as her brethren lose themselves within the winding, unending tunnels. As separate entities, as lost stars, they parade through the darkness as beacons of Solis’ light. She is but a flame in the shadows, and the darkness takes and takes—devours, until a lonely slumber fetters her to the hard floor of the tomb.
When her eyes slide shut, she is secluded; she is lost. A curse upon her tongue, a plea for vengeance, as he threads his lies betwixt her ears—
And she hates him. She hates him.)
With a tight chest, the woman forced her legs to gather beneath her. Like a teetering newborn, she swallows down the sourness of bile and the rough texture of sediment, drinking it down as though it were nectar: the desert’s sustenance for her waking, enraged soul.
How long had it been? The question was a plume among the disarray of her thoughts, a torch to beat back the frantic, gnawing worry of bewilderment. It was nearly enough to drive her to tears, if the hot press of sand upon her cheek had not sapped the dampness from her skin.
And she hungered, hungered—
Her voice was a strange interjection into the darkness as she was coaxed onto her feet and onward, compelled by the perpetuating allure of a distant star. The sun, heavy within the sky, laden with the obligation of daytime.
“Arjun,” she hissed, her voice whetted down to a hoarse blade, as though the deceiver awaited her upon the vast, unending spread of desert that lay above. She remembered that name, at least; she knew his lies, unironically, to be truth. The rest was a haze, a fog of colors and faces, and an endless litany that filled her with sorrow and love.
She was a juxtaposition of so many things, seeking the stability of certainty beneath her soles. She pushed forth, towards the mouth of the catacombs and the timorous flicker of light that beckoned her, sang to her, from the end of the tunnel.
The sun was a beacon, its rays a hymn, and she whispered the lyrics beneath her breath.
A name, her name. It was all she had.
"Hälla. Hälla."
The solitary word sang with the soft pad of her hooves.
-
@"Avallac'h"
GIVE IT TO ME
@"Avallac'h"
GIVE IT TO ME
