Theea
takes blood, sweat, and tears to look natural
The doors to the barracks never open.
They never open, because I'm not in the palace. I'm on it.You can all thank Ashe for this.
Deepfrost lies over the tundra like a held breath, the world rinsed in dusky blue. Stars still cling to the thinning dark, and a faint hint of yellow smudges the horizon—my favorite hour, the fragile moment before the sun claims the sky. I tiptoe along the snowy roof in the moments just before dawn, when there are no shadows, no sound, no concept of time—only the quiet, the breath held before an easy sigh. Times I share alone, times where there is no one else to disturb the more shadowed parts of me. When I can exist without the exuberant smiles and can-do, nothing-ever-goes-wrong attitude. When I can be sad or afraid or hurting and no one sees it, the expectations I've set don't break.
I've invited Damien into it, though. And what'd he say? Stop apologizing.
Frost nips through the flexible, black layers I threw on—thinner than they should be for this cold—and I shiver, knowing I’m about to be warming up. I crouch on the awning of the cloister nearest to where Damien hefts his new ax. He’s good with it. Every throw sticks, but he won’t be throwing it today. The barracks below hold the last chill of night; my breath ghosts in front of me as I creep closer to the edge. I wait until he’s thrown it again, but I do not wait for him to go and fetch it.
I launch from the awning to land just behind him, sword drawn, and I aim to tap his back with it before he can spin. Helplessly, I laugh a little bit, a real smile—probably a stupid one—lighting up now that I’m in front of him.
"Morning!" I chirp, breath clouding. My eyes glimmer with a mischief that I don’t bother to hide.
They never open, because I'm not in the palace. I'm on it.
Deepfrost lies over the tundra like a held breath, the world rinsed in dusky blue. Stars still cling to the thinning dark, and a faint hint of yellow smudges the horizon—my favorite hour, the fragile moment before the sun claims the sky. I tiptoe along the snowy roof in the moments just before dawn, when there are no shadows, no sound, no concept of time—only the quiet, the breath held before an easy sigh. Times I share alone, times where there is no one else to disturb the more shadowed parts of me. When I can exist without the exuberant smiles and can-do, nothing-ever-goes-wrong attitude. When I can be sad or afraid or hurting and no one sees it, the expectations I've set don't break.
I've invited Damien into it, though. And what'd he say? Stop apologizing.
Frost nips through the flexible, black layers I threw on—thinner than they should be for this cold—and I shiver, knowing I’m about to be warming up. I crouch on the awning of the cloister nearest to where Damien hefts his new ax. He’s good with it. Every throw sticks, but he won’t be throwing it today. The barracks below hold the last chill of night; my breath ghosts in front of me as I creep closer to the edge. I wait until he’s thrown it again, but I do not wait for him to go and fetch it.
I launch from the awning to land just behind him, sword drawn, and I aim to tap his back with it before he can spin. Helplessly, I laugh a little bit, a real smile—probably a stupid one—lighting up now that I’m in front of him.
"Morning!" I chirp, breath clouding. My eyes glimmer with a mischief that I don’t bother to hide.
that's how it's done
