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02-26-2016, 10:33 PM
all of the jewels in the crown would never make you happy,
but damn,
they're worth trying
She shouldn’t wish for things. Just as the quiet begins to settle it’s scared and trembling fingers
into the palm of Night’s hand, preparing to take it for a dance, she finds herself the victim of her own fears, ripping it away and fleeing, bolting from a possible mistake. The Valkyrie’s skin leaps atop her bones and shakes below the mass of her winter coat.
You are not alone is what the world is now whispering within her small ears, repeating itself time and time again. Branches snap in the shadows and forms, or a form moves about in the skeletons of dead trees.
Companionship is nice for a night, but she is not to trust so easily. It might be one of them, or an assassin, one that sees something held to her head that she does not. There’s eyes clung to her body and tension kissing every breath she takes before she breathes it in, rubbing cold and bony fingers against her rib cage so that when she drags it down to the depths of her lungs she’ll be forced to know that it’s so thickly there.
Eye contact is briefly made, and Walkure crown-like skull rises upwards and levels out, looking down upon a mare that makes the insides of her chest twist. Amatersu, is that you? Oh, how you’ve gotten smaller.
‘Sister….’
This strikes a cord. She is a general, a woman of power, a woman who could crush this puny being into the ground with her armies and then later forget because how many others have you done that to in the past?, and she remembers that this is a place that doesn’t whisper her name with either hatred or admiration. To this mare, she is nothing but a small statue of gold with snow and looking like no one wishes to care for her anymore.
Once a jewel, now nothing more than a stepping stone towards islands hidden in thick fog.
Ears draw back as she thinks, closing away violet eyes so that this mare can no longer have the grace of looking into them. “We are not sisters.” Harshness rules over her voice when it spoken in what is meant to come as a relaxed tone, instead slipping free with a soft care and bladed edges.
“And we will never be, so do not call me so.” A snort flutters out with a chuckle from her, now slowly opening her eyes to watch the reaction of the mare.
Naive.
“What is it that you want from me?” Paranoia slams dirty, bloodied jaws against her lips and works it’s way into her mouth, reminding her that is acceptable to all sorts of punishments. That instead of being but another stranger, is she eternally subject to her actions, forced to suffer till the day she dies.
Oh, what a way to live.
