[P] and death is the love of what hurts you the most

[Elena]

Some girls are full of heartache and poetry

“Come here Elena. Come here and tell me about your scars…or leave.”

And she stayed.
He asked if she was alone.
And she said yes.

He held her close.
And she told him about her scars.

Sometimes Elena wakes up and she cannot breathe.

The air feels as though it is too tangled, too heavy, too smoky, too thick. No air can come in, and the air in her lungs, just as heavy, just as matted cannot leave. There is panic in her veins, and she cannot move, so she silently screams, her lungs burning. It is the dreams, of empty, dead things. All of it, the whole world, going to ruin around her, decaying in front of her eyes, inside her mind. All of it gone. She is the world, and that world is dying.

Elena dies too.

There is something between them that is bred from a shared sadness—a kinship that comes from having felt the same pain. A pain not caused by the same faces, not caused by the same circumstances, but they have known the weight, have known the agony, and Elena can feel it leap off her skin. It would seem Seraphina’s telekinesis was able to push more than objects towards her. There is something nostalgic about this mare, something dangerous that sends her thoughts drifting back to ruinous homesickness. There is a depth, an awareness to the mare, beneath her eyes, her coat, there is a deep strength, a hidden purpose. Elena studies her for just a moment with dazzled awe. The indescribable want, Elena knows this too, and she is just as useless putting words to it. She came to Novus a women without roots, if only because she so forcefully yanked them out, but Novus brought her new soil, and here, Elena has bloomed, but like the sunflowers, she moves towards the sun, even as it never holds still in that blue sky.

The emotion does not show on her face, but Elena can feel it as clear as a single white cloud on a blue summer’s day. Elena is vaguely aware that the girl smells so much like flowers, that the golden girl could almost believe it to be summer. But the scent passes with her next words, and Elena knows she only imagined it. Elena only then moves towards her with graceful caution, and unrestrained compassion. “I don’t need to, but I think I would like to trouble myself,” she replies thoughtfully. “Come with me to the water,” Elena says then, as if it will offer them both salvation they may or may not seek. The golden girl knows it will not, but there is a beauty in pretending it may. Elena starts to walk before looking over her shoulder at the grey woman. (Grey like ghosts she tries to forget, grey like storm clouds she tries to ignore). And now she wants the grey to follow. Elena has always been a fickle creature.

“Do you have any stories worth telling?” She asks, eyes sparking like blue lightning. “I love a good story.”

those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves

instead of running from them