Thalassa
Hands getting cold
The world seemed to have a cruel humor about it. Not only was her lantern hanging dimly in the tree next to her, the man who seemed to annoy her at every opportunity now stood in the embrace of a spirit-woman. They seemed happy, resolving long-past regrets. Thal had to turn her eyes away, the ache of her own pain tightening her throat like a noose. Guilt and confusion swirled around the envy of what she'd hoped for herself - forgiveness, release, freedom.
Maybe every glimpse of pale skin or white hair would always be like a ghost finger trailing down her spine. Maybe the mention of her name would always bring dark thoughts of regret as suffocating as a bag being pulled over her head. Maybe Thal would never be free of her memory, their presence shackles on her future.
But then again - maybe Maea wasn't dead.
Maybe one day they would notice each other in a crowded street, eyes meeting with a mix of difficult emotions. Maybe they would be like passing ships in a storm, wondering who might shoot first. Or maybe they'd race to each other, Maea's words determine her salvation or downfall.
Pulling her cloak tighter around her hunched shoulders, Thal tried to cling to that speck of hope. It twisted in her grasp like a fragile thread keeping her sanity from falling to pieces. With any luck, she could weave new strands together, slowly strengthening it through pure determination. And maybe - just maybe - she could find the strength to grant her own forgiveness.
For now, Thal left the lantern behind, a step away from her guilt, as small as it was.
Thalassa out!
Maybe every glimpse of pale skin or white hair would always be like a ghost finger trailing down her spine. Maybe the mention of her name would always bring dark thoughts of regret as suffocating as a bag being pulled over her head. Maybe Thal would never be free of her memory, their presence shackles on her future.
But then again - maybe Maea wasn't dead.
Maybe one day they would notice each other in a crowded street, eyes meeting with a mix of difficult emotions. Maybe they would be like passing ships in a storm, wondering who might shoot first. Or maybe they'd race to each other, Maea's words determine her salvation or downfall.
Pulling her cloak tighter around her hunched shoulders, Thal tried to cling to that speck of hope. It twisted in her grasp like a fragile thread keeping her sanity from falling to pieces. With any luck, she could weave new strands together, slowly strengthening it through pure determination. And maybe - just maybe - she could find the strength to grant her own forgiveness.
For now, Thal left the lantern behind, a step away from her guilt, as small as it was.
Thalassa out!
Losing feeling is getting old
Was I made from a broken mold?
Was I made from a broken mold?
