Grendel, Grendel! You make the world by whispers, second by second. Are you blind to that? Whether you make it a grave or garden of roses is not the point.
☼
Most nights, she lies awake for hours.
The press of Diana and Ambrose at her side has become some small consolation for the nightmares that plague her nearly ever night. It has also become a concern. She does not want to wake them when she stirs to awareness, her heart pounding like a frightened deer in her ribcage, her eyes rolling, a gasp caught in her throat; and most nights, to her relief, she doesn’t. She has perfected the art of steeling herself in those moments of panic, keeping herself still until she can slip away from them unnoticed – and stand by the entryway of their makeshift home, wild-eyed and shaking until she can regain the scraps of her composure.
(Some nights, she stirs from her nightmares and cries. She does not know why; she never used to.)
Still, she is holding herself together. She is holding herself together, even in the face of things that should be impossible; she is holding herself together, although there are days where she does not want to. She is holding herself together because she has no other options. At least – that is what she tells herself. Sometimes, when she looks up and catches the ugly red-and-yellow spiral of Ereshkigal’s eye, she finds her stare almost pitying, and she feels an ugly prickle of something that is painfully familiar, but then she tells herself that she is tired of wishing for death to catch her, and she presses on in spite of it.
Tonight, when she shakes herself awake from some unpleasant dream and stands in the entryway of her cavern-home, she does not cry. She does not linger, either. Ereshkigal shifts to awareness somewhere behind her – she is not sure that she sleeps, but sometimes she perches like she does -, and she knows, without asking, that she will stay and watch Ambrose and Diana if she leaves. She steps out into the canyons with a clatter of sandstone, refusing herself the silence that her telekinesis permits, and she strides towards the Mors, white hair trailing behind her unbound like a slip of moonlight.
The moonlight has desaturated the sands, left them almost-silver in the night. She runs without knowing where she is going and without knowing why; if she is looking for something (and most of the time, she feels like she is), she doesn’t know what it is. The desert has not seemed the same to her since Raum, but there is always that impulse to escape into it, that need for familiarity that can only be satiated among the roll of the dunes. Perhaps it is only comforting because the sight of it is a reminder that he is dead, and so is Zolin, and so is the Viceroy. (Perhaps it isn’t comforting at all, because who is she without any of them?)
When she catches sight of the king of Delumine, chasing in the wake of a deer that she can barely see but is sure isn’t quite right, she freezes – she can’t help it. He looks unfamiliar in every way that he should and familiar in every way that she shouldn’t; that is to say that she somehow recognizes the look about him, but it almost hurts her to see it lain across his shoulders. It makes her feel bitter, but she can’t put a name to why.
“Ipomoea,” she says, with a slow tilt of her head, the tired glint of her eyes coming to settle on his face. It occurs to her that she doesn’t know what to say to him; he seems restless, half-lost, sharp in the way that every softer sovereign seems to become. (They all grew sharp edges eventually, thorns in the place of flowers.) "You’re a long way from Delumine.” Her voice has the soft cadence of a question, though she doesn’t ask it – gives him the opportunity to shy away from it, if he’d prefer it.
She is no good at consolations – but they are probably useless here. She settles into step alongside him, regardless, and she isn’t sure if it’s because of her persistent half-longing for company or something more charitable.
@Ipomoea || <3 || from john gardner's grendel
Speech || Ereshkigal
☼
Most nights, she lies awake for hours.
The press of Diana and Ambrose at her side has become some small consolation for the nightmares that plague her nearly ever night. It has also become a concern. She does not want to wake them when she stirs to awareness, her heart pounding like a frightened deer in her ribcage, her eyes rolling, a gasp caught in her throat; and most nights, to her relief, she doesn’t. She has perfected the art of steeling herself in those moments of panic, keeping herself still until she can slip away from them unnoticed – and stand by the entryway of their makeshift home, wild-eyed and shaking until she can regain the scraps of her composure.
(Some nights, she stirs from her nightmares and cries. She does not know why; she never used to.)
Still, she is holding herself together. She is holding herself together, even in the face of things that should be impossible; she is holding herself together, although there are days where she does not want to. She is holding herself together because she has no other options. At least – that is what she tells herself. Sometimes, when she looks up and catches the ugly red-and-yellow spiral of Ereshkigal’s eye, she finds her stare almost pitying, and she feels an ugly prickle of something that is painfully familiar, but then she tells herself that she is tired of wishing for death to catch her, and she presses on in spite of it.
Tonight, when she shakes herself awake from some unpleasant dream and stands in the entryway of her cavern-home, she does not cry. She does not linger, either. Ereshkigal shifts to awareness somewhere behind her – she is not sure that she sleeps, but sometimes she perches like she does -, and she knows, without asking, that she will stay and watch Ambrose and Diana if she leaves. She steps out into the canyons with a clatter of sandstone, refusing herself the silence that her telekinesis permits, and she strides towards the Mors, white hair trailing behind her unbound like a slip of moonlight.
The moonlight has desaturated the sands, left them almost-silver in the night. She runs without knowing where she is going and without knowing why; if she is looking for something (and most of the time, she feels like she is), she doesn’t know what it is. The desert has not seemed the same to her since Raum, but there is always that impulse to escape into it, that need for familiarity that can only be satiated among the roll of the dunes. Perhaps it is only comforting because the sight of it is a reminder that he is dead, and so is Zolin, and so is the Viceroy. (Perhaps it isn’t comforting at all, because who is she without any of them?)
When she catches sight of the king of Delumine, chasing in the wake of a deer that she can barely see but is sure isn’t quite right, she freezes – she can’t help it. He looks unfamiliar in every way that he should and familiar in every way that she shouldn’t; that is to say that she somehow recognizes the look about him, but it almost hurts her to see it lain across his shoulders. It makes her feel bitter, but she can’t put a name to why.
“Ipomoea,” she says, with a slow tilt of her head, the tired glint of her eyes coming to settle on his face. It occurs to her that she doesn’t know what to say to him; he seems restless, half-lost, sharp in the way that every softer sovereign seems to become. (They all grew sharp edges eventually, thorns in the place of flowers.) "You’re a long way from Delumine.” Her voice has the soft cadence of a question, though she doesn’t ask it – gives him the opportunity to shy away from it, if he’d prefer it.
She is no good at consolations – but they are probably useless here. She settles into step alongside him, regardless, and she isn’t sure if it’s because of her persistent half-longing for company or something more charitable.
@Ipomoea || <3 || from john gardner's grendel
Speech || Ereshkigal
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
