HOTARU
She's in a long black coat tonight
Waiting for me in the downpour outside
Waiting for me in the downpour outside
His eyes are a void that reflect her as easily as the glass had, and some small part of her loathes their removal. It is easier to stare into her own reflection, so familiar even in its emptiness, than to bear the scald of emotion in eyes not her own.
There are a thousand pathways this meeting, this reunion, could voyage down. As he steps forward, another Ru shoves him. Down, down the stone steps, into the dirt, the snow, the tread of her boots. A show of brutality, a reminder of her own power, which had so grievously failed her recently. Another Ru crumples into his arms and cries in the dark there, moonlight too weak and scattered by clouds to light her way. On and on and on, a thousand versions of her made distinct only by which emotion they embody at the exact hour, minute, second that Talyson Seawright darkens her doorway.
But what does philosophy matter? There is only the Ru of now, and oh how the Valkyrie hates that version the most.
He tugs her in, and she goes. As he is enveloped in golden hair, so she is cocooned in turn by snow-burned arms and the furs of his cloths. From over his shoulder, her eyes stare blankly into the dark. Only the dimmest ember sparks at the heaving weight of his emotion, so much easier felt than heard, so faulty and insincere is his tongue when attempting to deliver them.
“Only two, in the end. White dragons.” Her voice has never known ranges beyond regality, but there is something hollow beneath the inherent silk of her natural tone. Slowly, her hands climb his back, fingers turned to claws that grip into his vest as something possessive and primordial overtakes her. Bringing him close instead of shoving him away - and revealing the underbelly of this new, oil-slick-black thing she has become. Bleeding tar all over the both of them. “We saw the cannon; I was - I tried to make it to you.” It is a faltering excuse, an empty condolence. She hadn’t made it in the end, had she? So what was it worth?
What were her failed efforts ever worth?
There are a thousand pathways this meeting, this reunion, could voyage down. As he steps forward, another Ru shoves him. Down, down the stone steps, into the dirt, the snow, the tread of her boots. A show of brutality, a reminder of her own power, which had so grievously failed her recently. Another Ru crumples into his arms and cries in the dark there, moonlight too weak and scattered by clouds to light her way. On and on and on, a thousand versions of her made distinct only by which emotion they embody at the exact hour, minute, second that Talyson Seawright darkens her doorway.
But what does philosophy matter? There is only the Ru of now, and oh how the Valkyrie hates that version the most.
He tugs her in, and she goes. As he is enveloped in golden hair, so she is cocooned in turn by snow-burned arms and the furs of his cloths. From over his shoulder, her eyes stare blankly into the dark. Only the dimmest ember sparks at the heaving weight of his emotion, so much easier felt than heard, so faulty and insincere is his tongue when attempting to deliver them.
“Only two, in the end. White dragons.” Her voice has never known ranges beyond regality, but there is something hollow beneath the inherent silk of her natural tone. Slowly, her hands climb his back, fingers turned to claws that grip into his vest as something possessive and primordial overtakes her. Bringing him close instead of shoving him away - and revealing the underbelly of this new, oil-slick-black thing she has become. Bleeding tar all over the both of them. “We saw the cannon; I was - I tried to make it to you.” It is a faltering excuse, an empty condolence. She hadn’t made it in the end, had she? So what was it worth?
What were her failed efforts ever worth?
singing "Baby come home" in a melody of tears
While the rhythm of the rain keeps time
While the rhythm of the rain keeps time
