“AND DEEP IN OUR SECRET HEARTS
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
The night starts like this---
A shift of her wings that has nothing to do with flying between the stars, or raindrops, or clouds.
A feather falling to the ground, black as night and weighted with nothing but quicksilver sorrow.
A snarl in her chest that's louder than the humming of her heart when he accepts her touch like a god an offering on the battlefield.
The night begins. Warset ends.
His Warset, his star becomes nothing more than another drunken fever dream of a thing better forgotten than recalled with a blush and a smile.
She is lost in the darkness of the night (that night that she loved so strongly, so fiercely, once) the moment the sun settles across the horizon and the layers of blue turn dark as a day old bruise. The star settles beneath the spine of a wildcat. The girl curls up with a sorrowful sob between the chambers of a hungry heart. The leopard snarls and starts to etch her own rabid scripture across the insides of a pegasus skin.
His star pulls away. She laments the heat of him, the coldness of him that's icy enough to burn, the moment she pulls her face from the canyon of flesh and feathers. It does not matter that she was too afraid to blink, too terrified of quickening the coming of the darkness. The blackness settles on her (blacker than him, darker and colder and terrible) like a blanket.
And where the blanket settles Warset dissolves.
If she could hear him, or pluck the meaning from his mortal language, she might have said, I am just enough. Just enough to keep you from diving back in the sea. Perhaps she might have asked him if he could feel the hunger in her blood when he touches the skin above her pulse. She might have pulled on his hair and braided knots in patterns of the constellations as she tangled their feathers together so that flight would have been impossible for them both. She would have grounded herself with him so the air become nothing more than a nightmare best forgotten when the dawn came to call.
“I am..” She says on a sigh (a lament) and nothing else comes as she presses her lips together to muffle the snarl hanging like noose on the end of her voice. She wonders if she'll ever find the courage to say the words or the daylight to say them in. She wonders if she'll ever be his dream instead of this--
Instead she becomes the nightmare as she gnashes her teeth until they ache (and somewhere deep she begs for just one more second here in the twilight with him). She is the horror in the darkness as she pulls away with a tremble that runs and quakes deeper than her bones. She is--
She is--
Gone.
In a second she is streaking away from him, driven by the hunger and the fear pushing her to gnash her teeth against his neck, his wings, the hollow of his eyes ripe for tears. Warset, or what is left of Warset, tosses her head back into the darkness and roars loud enough to make the faint new-night stars tremble in their pillow of blackness.
And it's into that same blackness by the sea that she fully changes. There is no more Warset, not more torn out star to look at him with silver tears in her eyes. There is no more star, or girl, or thing that longs only to feel the cold-fire of his skin.
There is only a wildcat, a hungry rabid beast, leaping into the darkness with her snarling teeth blazing white. Yet, that wildcat, the rabid thing turns once to look back at him before she dissolves into the night.
And the look in her eyes is all longing that has nothing at all to do with meat, or blood, or hunting. It has nothing to do with anything but hunger---
A hunger that no hunt can settle.
@Caine
A shift of her wings that has nothing to do with flying between the stars, or raindrops, or clouds.
A feather falling to the ground, black as night and weighted with nothing but quicksilver sorrow.
A snarl in her chest that's louder than the humming of her heart when he accepts her touch like a god an offering on the battlefield.
The night begins. Warset ends.
His Warset, his star becomes nothing more than another drunken fever dream of a thing better forgotten than recalled with a blush and a smile.
She is lost in the darkness of the night (that night that she loved so strongly, so fiercely, once) the moment the sun settles across the horizon and the layers of blue turn dark as a day old bruise. The star settles beneath the spine of a wildcat. The girl curls up with a sorrowful sob between the chambers of a hungry heart. The leopard snarls and starts to etch her own rabid scripture across the insides of a pegasus skin.
His star pulls away. She laments the heat of him, the coldness of him that's icy enough to burn, the moment she pulls her face from the canyon of flesh and feathers. It does not matter that she was too afraid to blink, too terrified of quickening the coming of the darkness. The blackness settles on her (blacker than him, darker and colder and terrible) like a blanket.
And where the blanket settles Warset dissolves.
If she could hear him, or pluck the meaning from his mortal language, she might have said, I am just enough. Just enough to keep you from diving back in the sea. Perhaps she might have asked him if he could feel the hunger in her blood when he touches the skin above her pulse. She might have pulled on his hair and braided knots in patterns of the constellations as she tangled their feathers together so that flight would have been impossible for them both. She would have grounded herself with him so the air become nothing more than a nightmare best forgotten when the dawn came to call.
“I am..” She says on a sigh (a lament) and nothing else comes as she presses her lips together to muffle the snarl hanging like noose on the end of her voice. She wonders if she'll ever find the courage to say the words or the daylight to say them in. She wonders if she'll ever be his dream instead of this--
Instead she becomes the nightmare as she gnashes her teeth until they ache (and somewhere deep she begs for just one more second here in the twilight with him). She is the horror in the darkness as she pulls away with a tremble that runs and quakes deeper than her bones. She is--
She is--
Gone.
In a second she is streaking away from him, driven by the hunger and the fear pushing her to gnash her teeth against his neck, his wings, the hollow of his eyes ripe for tears. Warset, or what is left of Warset, tosses her head back into the darkness and roars loud enough to make the faint new-night stars tremble in their pillow of blackness.
And it's into that same blackness by the sea that she fully changes. There is no more Warset, not more torn out star to look at him with silver tears in her eyes. There is no more star, or girl, or thing that longs only to feel the cold-fire of his skin.
There is only a wildcat, a hungry rabid beast, leaping into the darkness with her snarling teeth blazing white. Yet, that wildcat, the rabid thing turns once to look back at him before she dissolves into the night.
And the look in her eyes is all longing that has nothing at all to do with meat, or blood, or hunting. It has nothing to do with anything but hunger---
A hunger that no hunt can settle.
@Caine
