The skies are black with lead-filled rain
a morbid painting on display
a morbid painting on display
She stumbles back into the Grounds like a phantom, a mere shell of the woman who had left for Halo days before. The only thing that seems to display that there is any sort of consciousness or awareness behind her glazed eyes is the gentle hand threaded through the base of a young unicorn's mane at her side. Atlas - as she has named him - is no longer injured, but he sticks to her side in a display of nerves and uncertainty that she can empathize with. Their bond thrums with a newness that sends sparks of intermittent exhilaration, giving her a few moments to feel like she can actually breathe.
Atlas pauses, golden eyes flicking away from the snowy path, ears perked and a small snuffle of noise escaping his soft muzzle. Hotaru pauses beside him, listlessly lifting her own gaze to whatever has drawn his attention. A motion inspired only by the protectiveness she feels for Atlas, the oath she'd given as she'd driven her blade into the heart of her past self. No other emotions seem to break through the haze just yet, but she tightens her fingers in the dark mane beneath her palm and squints into the light snowfall, trying to determine if someone is around or perhaps a creature is passing through.
Atlas pauses, golden eyes flicking away from the snowy path, ears perked and a small snuffle of noise escaping his soft muzzle. Hotaru pauses beside him, listlessly lifting her own gaze to whatever has drawn his attention. A motion inspired only by the protectiveness she feels for Atlas, the oath she'd given as she'd driven her blade into the heart of her past self. No other emotions seem to break through the haze just yet, but she tightens her fingers in the dark mane beneath her palm and squints into the light snowfall, trying to determine if someone is around or perhaps a creature is passing through.
This is the night that young love died
Buried at each others sides
Buried at each others sides
