and bury it before it buries me
A promise had been made before she knew there existed anything in the world beyond pinkie swears. Between her father and her stoic cousin that Elena had always been able to make smile, no matter the height of the wall he would try to build. He had promised her father he would protect her, no matter what. They formed some sort of strange, but sacred bond. He felt more like brother than he did cousin. A dark shield of obsidian and silver. Her shield. There when she cried, there when she laughed. She had him wrapped around her finger, he would have given her the world, and just like with Altair, just like the rest of her family, she repaid him by leaving.
She dreamed of him not long ago.
But it had been a long time since the last.
What would have happened had Dune seen that dream? Would he have still offered her a flower for her beauty? Or thought of her as no more than a child who needed protection?
Elena is a dreamer of the most dangerous kind. While she dreams of her family, of her past, of happy times and even sad, worse still she dreams of things that could have been. The dream Dune witnessed was not the first time she has succumbed to such dangerous thoughts of might've beens and different choices, different stories written in other universes. It is dangerous to think like that, because those dreams will lead her no where, to nothing, to no one. They have all been opportunities past, a parallel line with the life she has now, unable to cross.
If he would have asked her if she remembered him, she might have said yes, she might've said yes and wondered why those words didn't feel like a lie. But he doesn't ask her, and so she thinks the words no, and the difference between speaking and thinking is a mile wide with a truth and lie between them.
Those blue eyes hinge on his words, his answer is pleasant from his mouth and Elena will not admit that this is what she wanted him to hear. She doesn't like to think herself vain, but the golden girl falls victim to such petty things time and time. It sits there, the difference between mortals and gods. “Thank you,” she says, blinking those long, dark lashes and that so carefully frame those blue eyes that glisten like frost on the early morning grass. “I’ll have to show it off to everyone, I know,” she teases softly. The flower will wilt, she knows this, but she isn't thinking it right now. It is a pessimist that sees a flower one moment and sees it browned and withered the next. Does that mean then the optimist just sees a flower? You could say that, you’d be wrong, but you could say it. It is the realist that just sees a flower it is the optimist that sees a flower and thinks only of the beauty of the it blooming.
He extends another flower and Elena very nearly takes it. It is right there, but his words bring her to a halt. Golden ears tip forward in her flaxen mane, she brings that red cloak to wrap tighter around her shoulders. She shouldn’t, really, shouldn't tell him anything. A truth, a secret, even a lie. None of it should be told to a stranger for the price of a flower. Something about him though, it is entirely too familiar. Maybe, distantly, she remembers the way he had watched her smile and smiled in return. Maybe she can recall the way he looked when he took his final breath beside her. And maybe, oh just maybe, she can still feel the phantom touch of him wrapping around her, holding her, like they were so newly in love.
She brings her head head close to his, almost touching brow to brow, the way she had once touched another, the way she had so many times greeted her cousin. She plucks the flower from him and holds it close, eyes agonizing over its colors. “I’ll offer you both,” she says, her voice like red lipstick and dark eye shadow, her smile is like high heels and noisy bars. “I think I might be in love.”
She dreamed of him not long ago.
But it had been a long time since the last.
What would have happened had Dune seen that dream? Would he have still offered her a flower for her beauty? Or thought of her as no more than a child who needed protection?
Elena is a dreamer of the most dangerous kind. While she dreams of her family, of her past, of happy times and even sad, worse still she dreams of things that could have been. The dream Dune witnessed was not the first time she has succumbed to such dangerous thoughts of might've beens and different choices, different stories written in other universes. It is dangerous to think like that, because those dreams will lead her no where, to nothing, to no one. They have all been opportunities past, a parallel line with the life she has now, unable to cross.
If he would have asked her if she remembered him, she might have said yes, she might've said yes and wondered why those words didn't feel like a lie. But he doesn't ask her, and so she thinks the words no, and the difference between speaking and thinking is a mile wide with a truth and lie between them.
Those blue eyes hinge on his words, his answer is pleasant from his mouth and Elena will not admit that this is what she wanted him to hear. She doesn't like to think herself vain, but the golden girl falls victim to such petty things time and time. It sits there, the difference between mortals and gods. “Thank you,” she says, blinking those long, dark lashes and that so carefully frame those blue eyes that glisten like frost on the early morning grass. “I’ll have to show it off to everyone, I know,” she teases softly. The flower will wilt, she knows this, but she isn't thinking it right now. It is a pessimist that sees a flower one moment and sees it browned and withered the next. Does that mean then the optimist just sees a flower? You could say that, you’d be wrong, but you could say it. It is the realist that just sees a flower it is the optimist that sees a flower and thinks only of the beauty of the it blooming.
He extends another flower and Elena very nearly takes it. It is right there, but his words bring her to a halt. Golden ears tip forward in her flaxen mane, she brings that red cloak to wrap tighter around her shoulders. She shouldn’t, really, shouldn't tell him anything. A truth, a secret, even a lie. None of it should be told to a stranger for the price of a flower. Something about him though, it is entirely too familiar. Maybe, distantly, she remembers the way he had watched her smile and smiled in return. Maybe she can recall the way he looked when he took his final breath beside her. And maybe, oh just maybe, she can still feel the phantom touch of him wrapping around her, holding her, like they were so newly in love.
She brings her head head close to his, almost touching brow to brow, the way she had once touched another, the way she had so many times greeted her cousin. She plucks the flower from him and holds it close, eyes agonizing over its colors. “I’ll offer you both,” she says, her voice like red lipstick and dark eye shadow, her smile is like high heels and noisy bars. “I think I might be in love.”
so take away this apathy
bury it before it buries me
@
![[Image: ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db...0iFb4PvyXE]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/8026a53b-dc57-41ab-b574-9f8a8fe57ce4/ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db0780.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzgwMjZhNTNiLWRjNTctNDFhYi1iNTc0LTlmOGE4ZmU1N2NlNFwvZGR2b3R3ZS01OTMwMmJhNi02YTgxLTQ3YmYtOTg0Ni0zMGM1YTVkYjA3ODAucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.ujCJH7FAbsQhfZlQniMmEd_vw-VmvaTDn0iFb4PvyXE)
let's light this house on fire
we'll dance in the warmth of its blaze
pixel made by the amazing star
