Warmth, it thrived with the assurance that came in an eternal embrace. Through the hollow dirges of hell, from the mire of blood and guts, the small fire in the pit of her heart would burn radiantly despite its meager flame. It could have been the mere will to survive, the raw desire to thrive amidst a landscape that bled blood for water and reaped flesh for bread. No easy sacrifice, living. Sia, so obsessed that it consumed her entirely. A hell fire then, anointing her and stripping all possibility of a pleasant and pure childhood; the innocence of a newborn, thrust out from mother’s bosom; yet having not known any better, was there any reason or purpose to grieve this fleeting loss?

And yet innocence continued to sing its enchanted song, filling the youth with sweet, petty lies. She chased them as though they danced about her, insects vibrant with elegant wings, toying with the child who sought to follow, to pray and worship. That once they settled on her curious face, she would transcend into places few recalled in their youth, and yet, places reserved truly for those of her age.

But in the thick of darkness these cruel melodies forsake the fool. The weight of the void that surrounds her leaves a dead silence she finds too still to bear. Her new home should warrant an ounce of her faith at least, a soft sigh to signify her relief, rejoicing in the peace that is now invested in the Basin.

“No.” Her soft voice murmurs.

There are faces in the dark, eyes and limbs, flesh and membrane. She stirs from her spot once more, forcing herself to move, lest they take her. As if the darkness should crack open, spilling refuse all over, inviting worm and maggot to fester. The thought makes her sick, puncturing the air so that it hangs heavy despite winter’s frigid kiss. If she rested too long she couldn’t breathe, her heart would race and her eyes would threaten to shut. Trying so very, very hard to deflect the shifting masses of creatures and faces she’d encountered in her journey.

She gasped as she picked up speed. The sharp wind streaked along her face and thrumming bodice. It made her eyes tear up and drag, smeared against her white and red freckled cheeks.

They were all at her heels. Their claws stealing away ice kisses for numbness.

They reached her throat, the claws, and the teeth. She was struck with fear, succumbing to the numb injection of imaginary venom. Her control was poor, and all she could do to maintain it was by preventing her cry from making a grand exit. Instead she threw her head up, wide eyes gaping at the hollow world as a cracked whimper implored the space about her.

There they were, flooding inside of her. Their dull eyes, the careless bloodletting and screams.

Her rigid forehead, with troubled and furrowed brows, dipped towards the earth where her horn hung. This, this always happened. Loneliness, the gateway; and the fire, a patient guardian, made hungry by its torment. But the youth’s resolve, long lost in the race, crawled forwards with soft and unsteady steps. There was warmth nearby, and she could feel it, wanted, needed… until she stood along its edges, numb to the moist mists curling languidly about her.

The hot springs, it was almost ethereal here. The dull glow emanated from the scattered foliage, converging on the mists, glittering, skimming off the contorted bubbles and steams with lazy finesse. A mechanical life thrived here; giving way to hisses that should have warned the girl. It was with an uneasy relief however that she welcomed them; at least these were real, that she could see and hear them with certainty. Though perhaps most of all the warmth appealed to her homesick frailty.

She paced the edges with her head up. Her eyes remained lost, where by habit her features hardened, from toiling with the ambiguous emotions warring for her spirit. There was never enough time to think, to be still. And with that chance it merely provided a plethora of strings, each attached to some face, some voice, people she had loved. It all seemed to well up in her throat. A mess that was starting to invade into her chest; pain.

“Stat sua cique dies
Stat sua cuique dies”
(To each his day is given)

Timid vocals implored the mechanical breath of the hot springs, incredibly shy as they shook in a whisper. They lacked the honeyed lips of the one who’d taught her how. Or the distinct tremble in her voice, that didn’t waver on an account of not being able to fill the air with soothing chords, but in testament to her spirit; steadfast in times of great sorrow.

“Mael is me to feran”
(‘Tis time that I fare from you)

But they had all sung it, when it appeared impossible; when silence would have driven them all mad, it soothed the losses. And they could breathe, just breathe. Her voice lifted weakly, crackling. This one always reminded her of him. The lack of her independence gave way to the shameful, however brief cry at the end of the lyric, she did not want to change. Did not want to adapt. But before she could attest to it her voice dipped further.

“Aleto men moi nostos
Aleto men moi nostos”
(Lost is my homecoming)

“C’est pour cela que je suis née”
(I was born for this)

Sia would never hope to replicate the ease for which Dias had perfected the old song, nor the assurance, pledged in the air from the roots of her vocals. When all was right in the world, just to be beside her.


[[ooc: song not mine >.o, journey game soundtrack, just couldn't resist it... nom... ]]
@[Frost Fyre]