prayed to keep my soul
S
he is a creature who is comfortable in her skin, who is so content to watch the world pass by her, and she sketches images of it on her arm. She likes watching others smile, laugh, but she too likes to watch when tears stain their cheeks and fear covers their eyes. She likes watching life cross someone’s face, all the good and the bad. Elliana, as her powers and her connection with the dead grow, will come to crave these moments, moments where she can see the life in another, just to make sure she has not lost herself in the land of the dead. And so this party, these faces, these voices, these lives, offer her so much comfort and love and joy. If she knew of Dune’s dream wandering, and if she knew of her own powers to come, she might have asked him, how do you know which world you are in? How do you choose which way to go when you stand on the bridge between them? And how do you survive knowing both worlds without crushing under the weight of it all?
And do those dreams ever cross over into this world? Does he hear it? The buzzing, the constant buzzing that makes her bones weep.
Like a wispy girl, lost to whim and wander, she watches with dreamy blue eyes as he takes the paintbrush. He says she can paint whatever she wishes and a world of possibility opens up before her. His dark skin reminds her of the earth. Her mother told her that from the earth rose flowers in the spring, flowers like those in her windowsill. And suddenly he appears before her not like a canvas, but a garden, with flowers blooming, just as she knew they would in Dusk come spring. She starts painting as the whisper of his smile hangs on his lips. She thinks of first a sunflower, and mixes paints to just the right shade of gold.
“Elliana,” she responds as her brush finally touches down against his skin. “But you can call me, Elli,” she adds. Everyone does. Elliana has always felt too large in her mouth, like there is too much that is held within that name. It was not like Elli, Elli like a butterfly tucker between gentle palms, with quiet, fluttering wings. He says his name as she finishes the sunflower on his chest. Another brush, another paint color, and she begins to paint tulips on his shoulder. “Do you like the party?” She asks him abruptly. “I heard parties are supposed to be fun,” she says if only because she thinks she would rather be painting by her cliff side cottage, or fulfilling the wanderlust that hums steadily below her skin of golden shadows.
@Dune elliana speaks
elliana
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