IF I WENT TO HELL WOULD I
care, would it really be different from heaven? No / I don't know what I'm saying, these aren't my answers. / I don't care about being alive -☼
When she hears the beat of wings, at first she thinks that Ereshkigal has returned. She lingers, and she does not turn her head, anticipating the scent of blood and gore and the sound of teeth on bone. It never comes.
She raises her head, slick white hair dribbling down the curve of her neck. There is an osprey perched in the branches, brown-and-white feathers all salt and sea; even from a distance, she can see its blood-red eyes, like two rubies inlaid in its brow. It reminds her of Ereshkigal, somewhat, though the character of its stare is different.
She does not know much of the sea or its creatures. Still, she knows that an osprey is a sea-bird - not one that you should find in the desert. She wonders, at first, if it is a bonded companion, if she is not so alone as she expected-
The bird descends from the trees with a beat of its powerful wings, and, before it touches the ground, turns into a woman; long wings become limbs, a beak a mouth, feathers fur and red, red hair. Her stomach knots, at first. She has not encountered a shapeshifter since - him, and there is something about the twisting of limbs and shift in texture that makes her stomach roil. At first, all she can see is a bear claw, centimeters from her eye, and all she can feel is a burning in her cheek, a slash and crushing of bone. She is lucky that her face is not concave from the incident, lucky that the scarring was not worse. She is not lucky to have survived. Should she be grateful? Sometimes she wonders. She is always carrying the dead on her shoulders like lead weights; she always sees their marble eyes at night, watching her from the fever-dark and burning edges of her dreams. Should she feel guilty? She doesn’t know - she never asked if they wanted to be alive. She only knows that she didn’t save them, and that she should have. Is this an obligation borne out of duty or empathy? She doesn’t know, she never has-
The woman scarcely looks at her. She does not speak to her, either; she barely even looks her way, those blood-red eyes trained on the cerulean waters of the oasis. She is grateful, almost. She does not want to be seen in this state. (Everything about it is nearly reprehensible. A hair's-breadth short, or too long.) She does not want to be spoken to by anyone. She is horribly lonely, but she does not want a reprieve from her loneliness; she only wishes that she could crush it to sand and send it away.
There is something familiar to the woman’s warlike stature. To her red hair, to the dark coils of her horns. She might have seen her before. She has seen so many people; she is sure that she used to be better at remembering faces, but nowadays they slip away from her as easily as each rise and fall of the sun. But she must do better. Not for her own sake. It is too late for that by far, but the children-
She does not want to speak to her, exactly. She still feels that she should. Perhaps it is because there is something to the way the woman moves - something to the ruby-red gleam of the osprey’s eyes - that suggests a longing compatible to her own, the sort with teeth enough to bite. There is nothing hospitable about her. (There is nothing hospitable about her.) Still, she cannot help but train her mismatched eyes on the woman’s back and speak.
Perhaps - it is just a craving for noise. Anything to fill the silence. Anything to fill.
“You’re a long way from the sea,” she observes, her voice the whisper of winds across the sloped backs of the dunes.
@Boudika || <3 || alice notley, "fill out questionnaire for good"
Sera || Eresh
care, would it really be different from heaven? No / I don't know what I'm saying, these aren't my answers. / I don't care about being alive -☼
When she hears the beat of wings, at first she thinks that Ereshkigal has returned. She lingers, and she does not turn her head, anticipating the scent of blood and gore and the sound of teeth on bone. It never comes.
She raises her head, slick white hair dribbling down the curve of her neck. There is an osprey perched in the branches, brown-and-white feathers all salt and sea; even from a distance, she can see its blood-red eyes, like two rubies inlaid in its brow. It reminds her of Ereshkigal, somewhat, though the character of its stare is different.
She does not know much of the sea or its creatures. Still, she knows that an osprey is a sea-bird - not one that you should find in the desert. She wonders, at first, if it is a bonded companion, if she is not so alone as she expected-
The bird descends from the trees with a beat of its powerful wings, and, before it touches the ground, turns into a woman; long wings become limbs, a beak a mouth, feathers fur and red, red hair. Her stomach knots, at first. She has not encountered a shapeshifter since - him, and there is something about the twisting of limbs and shift in texture that makes her stomach roil. At first, all she can see is a bear claw, centimeters from her eye, and all she can feel is a burning in her cheek, a slash and crushing of bone. She is lucky that her face is not concave from the incident, lucky that the scarring was not worse. She is not lucky to have survived. Should she be grateful? Sometimes she wonders. She is always carrying the dead on her shoulders like lead weights; she always sees their marble eyes at night, watching her from the fever-dark and burning edges of her dreams. Should she feel guilty? She doesn’t know - she never asked if they wanted to be alive. She only knows that she didn’t save them, and that she should have. Is this an obligation borne out of duty or empathy? She doesn’t know, she never has-
The woman scarcely looks at her. She does not speak to her, either; she barely even looks her way, those blood-red eyes trained on the cerulean waters of the oasis. She is grateful, almost. She does not want to be seen in this state. (Everything about it is nearly reprehensible. A hair's-breadth short, or too long.) She does not want to be spoken to by anyone. She is horribly lonely, but she does not want a reprieve from her loneliness; she only wishes that she could crush it to sand and send it away.
There is something familiar to the woman’s warlike stature. To her red hair, to the dark coils of her horns. She might have seen her before. She has seen so many people; she is sure that she used to be better at remembering faces, but nowadays they slip away from her as easily as each rise and fall of the sun. But she must do better. Not for her own sake. It is too late for that by far, but the children-
She does not want to speak to her, exactly. She still feels that she should. Perhaps it is because there is something to the way the woman moves - something to the ruby-red gleam of the osprey’s eyes - that suggests a longing compatible to her own, the sort with teeth enough to bite. There is nothing hospitable about her. (There is nothing hospitable about her.) Still, she cannot help but train her mismatched eyes on the woman’s back and speak.
Perhaps - it is just a craving for noise. Anything to fill the silence. Anything to fill.
“You’re a long way from the sea,” she observes, her voice the whisper of winds across the sloped backs of the dunes.
@Boudika || <3 || alice notley, "fill out questionnaire for good"
Sera || Eresh
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
