We're riding 'round this carousel, getting dizzy 'til we're sick
He doesn’t mean to make her dwell on everything that had happened in the past – but it’s the dance the two of them constantly tango in. The way that when the Climb Fever had struck, he and Nate had spent weeks chasing the wraith of her through the very hills that lead up to Apopo just on the whim they might find her again. And when they had, when everything was nearly fucking perfect, he’d gone and destroyed it all again.
Sunjata’s never escaped the gallows, despite how he tries. It haunts him, not unlike his father had haunted and ruined his life from these very sands. The lanterns that surround his room back at the House of Midnight are the very same ghosts that appear the second he closes his eyes. These are scars he doesn’t think will fade, doesn’t think will get easier with time, regardless of how many times Frey tries to guide him. The ghosts are still too close to him, still buried in, guiding his movements despite their strings being cut.
And if he’s being honest he’s terrified of trying again. Just like he had when Lusea had died the first time. He’d been terrified and yet opened his heart, shifted his mask, and done the same lockstep that had gotten him into the first disaster.
He realizes he’s staring when she answers, only because it’s as if he can memories her breathing in front of him, proving to himself that she isn’t a ghost, that the flicker of fire that dances across her face is still that little kernel within him that hopelessly loves her despite the nonstop pain they cause for each other. Because her answer of Torchline hits him again, deep, like the knife she’d slashed into his thigh. He wishes Safrin hadn’t rid him of that particular scar.
He wishes Safrin hadn’t done a lot of the things she’d done, but alas.
He finds himself reaching out for her hand again, covering it as she still toys with that wine glass she has yet to drink from, his hand curling around her fingers with the glint of the wedding ring still worn on his hand, one they had a design and everything to include her in as well, a way it would slot perfectly together between his and Nate’s sun and moon. “Thank you.” He breathes softly, his voice more accented, throatier as he goes to clear it shortly after.
Sunjata’s never escaped the gallows, despite how he tries. It haunts him, not unlike his father had haunted and ruined his life from these very sands. The lanterns that surround his room back at the House of Midnight are the very same ghosts that appear the second he closes his eyes. These are scars he doesn’t think will fade, doesn’t think will get easier with time, regardless of how many times Frey tries to guide him. The ghosts are still too close to him, still buried in, guiding his movements despite their strings being cut.
And if he’s being honest he’s terrified of trying again. Just like he had when Lusea had died the first time. He’d been terrified and yet opened his heart, shifted his mask, and done the same lockstep that had gotten him into the first disaster.
He realizes he’s staring when she answers, only because it’s as if he can memories her breathing in front of him, proving to himself that she isn’t a ghost, that the flicker of fire that dances across her face is still that little kernel within him that hopelessly loves her despite the nonstop pain they cause for each other. Because her answer of Torchline hits him again, deep, like the knife she’d slashed into his thigh. He wishes Safrin hadn’t rid him of that particular scar.
He wishes Safrin hadn’t done a lot of the things she’d done, but alas.
He finds himself reaching out for her hand again, covering it as she still toys with that wine glass she has yet to drink from, his hand curling around her fingers with the glint of the wedding ring still worn on his hand, one they had a design and everything to include her in as well, a way it would slot perfectly together between his and Nate’s sun and moon. “Thank you.” He breathes softly, his voice more accented, throatier as he goes to clear it shortly after.
the flood
Love is like a circle, there's no easy way to end
totally sniped from odd ilu
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
