and bury it before it buries me
Maybe, if they weren't strangers, she would confess to him that his coat reminds her of snow.
Of clouds passing by.
Of the capped mountains of her once home.
Of her father’s murderer.
But they are strangers, and so she says nothing.
If only she could hear his thoughts.
Maybe she would tell him that she wont live forever (even with immortality, Elena will one day close her eyes, never to open them.) Or maybe she would sink beneath his skin and ask him to protect her forever, because it feels like it has been so long since she has been protected. It has been so long since she has felt that sort of sanctuary that only comes from another wrapping their arms around you and promising to save you, even from yourself. If she could read his thoughts she would have asked him if he would always be there, if he could promise her that.
And right now she wouldn't care if it was empty.
“I try to be,” she says, modest. In truth, Elena has been healing since she had been small. An apprentice at just the age of a year and a half, a herd’s healer in her own right at the age of 3, to two different herds before she turned to politics and diplomacy.
But she found her way back home in the end. To comforting and fixing and mending. She always thought her reasoning for healing was entirely altruistic, but it wasnt, not entirely. She shouldn't tell him this, what would he, a stranger, think of her? “I like fixing things I can see, mending what is broken. I like easing pain.” She decides to tell him anyway, because it feels less like a stolen secret when she can convince herself it’s been willingly shared. “A cut, a concussion, a burn, is so much easier than other things.”
It easy for her to recognize the hurt in another—the familiar anguish, her own personal brand of sorrow. It is easy for Elena to call upon it, and she can easily see it in his eyes, in the shifting of his ears. She knows how it feels to have hurt buried beneath skin to make its home and pierce your heart, leaving you open and bleeding beneath it.
She knows too that it is difficult to find the words to describe such hurt and opening it up to fresh air has a way of amplifying the pain, so she doesn't say anything more, pretends she has forgotten how he had openly weeped only moments before, the same way she pretends her own wounds do not sit just below the surface, threatening to rip open at the slightest movement.
“I would love that,” she murmurs, her voice lilting and soft. Her eyes follow his out and she counts the nearest trees, traces their branches and memorizes the shades of their leaves, and when she finally turns back to him she is careful to hide her brokenness from him. “Enough to last this lifetime.” Her voice shatters quietly, coming apart at the seams and her eyes drop, darkening like bruises against her golden face. “You never have the luxury of forgetting you are an orphan,” she says through a smile, like it might have been a joke, when really her heart kicks inside her chest. She presses a quiet kiss into his shoulder, it means nothing more than what it is, a need to touch, to comfort, to connect.
She thinks about telling him, how the colors of sunset reflect off his skin and he looks nothing like her father’s killer.
But, she doesn’t.
Of clouds passing by.
Of the capped mountains of her once home.
Of her father’s murderer.
But they are strangers, and so she says nothing.
If only she could hear his thoughts.
Maybe she would tell him that she wont live forever (even with immortality, Elena will one day close her eyes, never to open them.) Or maybe she would sink beneath his skin and ask him to protect her forever, because it feels like it has been so long since she has been protected. It has been so long since she has felt that sort of sanctuary that only comes from another wrapping their arms around you and promising to save you, even from yourself. If she could read his thoughts she would have asked him if he would always be there, if he could promise her that.
And right now she wouldn't care if it was empty.
“I try to be,” she says, modest. In truth, Elena has been healing since she had been small. An apprentice at just the age of a year and a half, a herd’s healer in her own right at the age of 3, to two different herds before she turned to politics and diplomacy.
But she found her way back home in the end. To comforting and fixing and mending. She always thought her reasoning for healing was entirely altruistic, but it wasnt, not entirely. She shouldn't tell him this, what would he, a stranger, think of her? “I like fixing things I can see, mending what is broken. I like easing pain.” She decides to tell him anyway, because it feels less like a stolen secret when she can convince herself it’s been willingly shared. “A cut, a concussion, a burn, is so much easier than other things.”
It easy for her to recognize the hurt in another—the familiar anguish, her own personal brand of sorrow. It is easy for Elena to call upon it, and she can easily see it in his eyes, in the shifting of his ears. She knows how it feels to have hurt buried beneath skin to make its home and pierce your heart, leaving you open and bleeding beneath it.
She knows too that it is difficult to find the words to describe such hurt and opening it up to fresh air has a way of amplifying the pain, so she doesn't say anything more, pretends she has forgotten how he had openly weeped only moments before, the same way she pretends her own wounds do not sit just below the surface, threatening to rip open at the slightest movement.
“I would love that,” she murmurs, her voice lilting and soft. Her eyes follow his out and she counts the nearest trees, traces their branches and memorizes the shades of their leaves, and when she finally turns back to him she is careful to hide her brokenness from him. “Enough to last this lifetime.” Her voice shatters quietly, coming apart at the seams and her eyes drop, darkening like bruises against her golden face. “You never have the luxury of forgetting you are an orphan,” she says through a smile, like it might have been a joke, when really her heart kicks inside her chest. She presses a quiet kiss into his shoulder, it means nothing more than what it is, a need to touch, to comfort, to connect.
She thinks about telling him, how the colors of sunset reflect off his skin and he looks nothing like her father’s killer.
But, she doesn’t.
so take away this apathy
bury it before it buries me
@Lyr
![[Image: ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db...0iFb4PvyXE]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/8026a53b-dc57-41ab-b574-9f8a8fe57ce4/ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db0780.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzgwMjZhNTNiLWRjNTctNDFhYi1iNTc0LTlmOGE4ZmU1N2NlNFwvZGR2b3R3ZS01OTMwMmJhNi02YTgxLTQ3YmYtOTg0Ni0zMGM1YTVkYjA3ODAucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.ujCJH7FAbsQhfZlQniMmEd_vw-VmvaTDn0iFb4PvyXE)
let's light this house on fire
we'll dance in the warmth of its blaze
pixel made by the amazing star
