your heart is a wild thing
made of stardust and thunder and hurricanes
made of stardust and thunder and hurricanes
A soft sigh cracks from her throat, her sorrow rippling in waves of gray and blue to match the sky after the onslaught of a summer storm. Her lids heavy with the tempest of sweet slumber and burning tears, she blinks them open. So so slowly; gaze adjusting to the bleakness that matched the feelings in her own shattered heart. As she turned to brave seeing the woman's face once more, the stormsinger finally sees.. the lovely deepness of her amethyst eyes, like crystal gems faceted with the color of ripe oranges and the promise of dusk on a clear summer's day. Her smile is even more enchanting as it pulls her in, and Aislinn is sure of it now — this nameless, beautiful creature is twilight and spring meadows; all the lovely things that could possibly exist in the world bound into one.
Is it a native song?
The lyrics of her lullaby slowly draw the corner of her lip upwards; but only for a moment, before the shred of joy the memory brings drags with it a dagger of piercing ache. With a shake of her crown, Aislinn stares downward; down the planes of grass cushioned underneath her, down the pebbles and rock face until she notes the fury of crashing waves below. Her tangled mane thrashes around her ebony frame in a sudden gust of wind; her tattoos now bare and open. But she does not care.. no, she only cares for one thing. A cure.. anything to mend what was broken, for she wishes for nothing else but for her heart to be remade.
"No," she answers, blinking and meeting the woman's entrancing gaze, a soft smile a ghost on her lips, "but it is to me." An aria of dreams, of stars and a kingdom home to a beloved king and queen. That is what her mother had once sung to her; and that memory alone tugged at something so far deep in her that she could not stop the words from playing in her mind. Not now.
I am not sure there is any cure but time… All things heal with time.
Time, the woman said. What a fickle, folly thing for a foolish gypsy girl. For that is what she was; a woman of nonsense who filled her head with preposterous dreams and wishes akin to stories told to children. Of course the most gifted healers in all of the land could not help her now. There was no magic potion to sew her heart back to wholeness, nor no pixie dust to help her fly far, far away.
"I still see his face," she admits, her orbs blurring as she no longer sees reality, but the dark planes of his chiseled crown; the alabaster star perfectly centered between silver eyes. Through thick lashes, Aislinn's sight is gone; now replaying the moment that continued to haunt her and rob her of sleep. "I still hear his voice." I'm in love with — we aren't.. can't —
It hurts now, but I think it gets better... Do you have someone you can confide in?
She is bleeding and broken — a ragdoll in need of mending — as another single tear falls down her face quickly becomes two, and three, and more than she can count or bear. The careful walls that she had built over years cracked and crumbled under the weight of her grief; a silver dagger piercing her chest and loosing all of the pain from her soul. Her cries wrack her body in violent shakes, the floodgates of her hurt bursting forth and overwhelming every once-burning nerve; for now, her sobs unyielding and as merciless as the blade of agony slowly twists in her chest with each beat of her heart. Without realizing it, the stormsinger leaned into the golden woman's own delicate frame; seeking her warmth, her gentle touch and strokes through her wild starlit mane.
Aislinn, the daughter of storms and stars, was reduced to that of a little girl who craved the embrace of a loving mother, a friend, a shoulder she could depend on. Her vision blurred as every emotion — the crimson tendrils of rage, and the bittersweet taste of heartache — tore her insides to pieces; much like a tsumani laying waste to a city too close to shore. She remembers the soft promise of his kiss on her wounded wing; the warmth of their touch on the cliffs overlooking a stormy sea; his eyes of liquid silver boring into hers of brightest blue flames; and the tinkling of golden coins tangled in his untamed curls that very night they had met. Her heart weeps for every memory, hands outreached and grasping nothing — only air — as her lips tremble, and her eyes blink away the last tears that she could harbor. Tear ducts finally desert dry, and her nose sniffling through the thick of sadness blanketing her entire body.
She does not realize how alike they were then; how a stormchild born of stars and indigo galaxies could share twin hearts with a young woman of honey and lavender blossoms and eternal spring.
I am Florentine.
Her heart lurches violently in her chest, thrusting against the inside curves of her rib cage and pushing on what little oxygen was caught in her lungs. The woman's words fade quickly, for the stormsinger only hears one thing, one name. Every ridge and chord of muscle tenses, like a statue holding it's breath, as blue eyes widen with fevered shock. Aislinn's crown tilts, ever so slightly, as she takes in the woman of sun-sweet milk and gold.
"What did you say?" she breathes, soft and loosed with shudders of thunder, but not anger. And then the memory clicks, final and brutal, his voice quick and loud through the madness of the fathoms below and the discord of her soul. I am in love with Florentine. I am in love with Florentine. I am in love with —
Lurching upwards, she is a flurry of ebony wings marked with moonlight as fresh tears stream down the delicate planes of her face. Her eyes are narrowed, hooves pushing against the loose stones beneath her as the ground quakes at the sudden movement. What little trust and faith in the golden woman — his heart in the flesh — was shredded and cut by the sheers of fate. She bunches her wings closer to her body, searching for the warmth that had flooded her in Florentine's absence now as she stared at the woman in disbelief.. in betrayal.
"You.. you're her."
@
"Aislinn speech."
