DARKNESS IN THE WEST
OF ALL THE PRETTY ASHES
I LOVED YOURS THE BEST
Well, maybe that’s not quite right. It’s almost like she is not looking to him but away from everything else: the smoke, the waves, the many churning shades of crimson. It’s not like she’s searching for salvation, or escape, or a color that isn’t red.
When he looks back at her, he is struck by the thought that she is something crafted. Made with intention, pieced together carefully-- not tossed to the air like Dune, left for the wind to shape at its whim. He thinks he might be jealous, until the fish settles in his belly and the salt-copper scent of the dream forces itself up his nose and down his throat.
She asks who he is. He wonders if she can’t feel the answer in the singing tap-tap of her horn against his. Imposter, is what the rolling bells sound like to him. Intruder, it tolls. Mortal. Orphan. Thief. “Nobody,” he exhales. "You?"
Nobody-- Doesn’t she know?
“Why are we here?” He asks, because this does not feel like one of those strange but happenstance dreams.
This feels like the front line of a war.
@Avesta <3
