Maea
And time it waits for no one
It heals them when you die
It heals them when you die
Remain calm. It sounded so easy, so obvious and doable that she had to laugh, a huffed, desperate sounding thing that was almost genuine. Almost.
"Let's add sober to that, too," Maea replied, "because I get far too honest when I'm drunk. Did you know, there's such a thing as too honest? Never thought telling the truth and saying how much I love someone would send them running for the hills."
Snatching the cloth from the air with her own telekinesis, twisted it into a knot and let it fsll back to the bed with a quiet thump. She could have hurled it across the room, would have loved to, but the tightness between her shoulderblades and the prickling sensation of ice within her veins suggested she was one tantrum away from losing control, from lashing out again; Maea sat on pins and needles, longing desperaterly for something to take it all out on.
When had she become so angry? So violent? Was this really her?
"People rarely ask what I want," she sighed, and tried to breathe through the urge to fling the stupid tea into Loren's face. She didn't want to be calm, or quiet, or sleep. The sigh turned into a cough, another one, that left her gasping for breath at the end.
"That house though? Oh, I'm sure I could have it. He even said he would fix it up for me, a present for when I'm done here. But what's the point if he's not there? In the end it was his dream, and I just borrowed into it. Inserted myself like it was obvious I belonged in it, when clearly he must have been seeing Lusea walk those rooms instead. " Which also hurt.
"I don't have any dreams, beyond him. Without him... I don't see anything beyond finishing up studies here and going back to the Guild. Guess I'll spend my time digging through lore and running errands for the gods, wherever they deign talk to me. Pretend I'm not choking on silence whenever I run out of work to do, that I'm not tired, that I'm not lonely.
"Gods, maybe I should start bedhopping like he does... at least when I'm fucked I don't have to think about anything else."
The way her mouth curled was bitter, angry, sad... Always sad. She was choking on it, piled up like bile in her throat. Foul, tasting like whiskey, smoke and honey wine, too sweet and cloying. If only something would burn, or hurt. Like fangs biting down on her neck, like claws raking down her spine.
"Let's add sober to that, too," Maea replied, "because I get far too honest when I'm drunk. Did you know, there's such a thing as too honest? Never thought telling the truth and saying how much I love someone would send them running for the hills."
Snatching the cloth from the air with her own telekinesis, twisted it into a knot and let it fsll back to the bed with a quiet thump. She could have hurled it across the room, would have loved to, but the tightness between her shoulderblades and the prickling sensation of ice within her veins suggested she was one tantrum away from losing control, from lashing out again; Maea sat on pins and needles, longing desperaterly for something to take it all out on.
When had she become so angry? So violent? Was this really her?
"People rarely ask what I want," she sighed, and tried to breathe through the urge to fling the stupid tea into Loren's face. She didn't want to be calm, or quiet, or sleep. The sigh turned into a cough, another one, that left her gasping for breath at the end.
"That house though? Oh, I'm sure I could have it. He even said he would fix it up for me, a present for when I'm done here. But what's the point if he's not there? In the end it was his dream, and I just borrowed into it. Inserted myself like it was obvious I belonged in it, when clearly he must have been seeing Lusea walk those rooms instead. " Which also hurt.
"I don't have any dreams, beyond him. Without him... I don't see anything beyond finishing up studies here and going back to the Guild. Guess I'll spend my time digging through lore and running errands for the gods, wherever they deign talk to me. Pretend I'm not choking on silence whenever I run out of work to do, that I'm not tired, that I'm not lonely.
"Gods, maybe I should start bedhopping like he does... at least when I'm fucked I don't have to think about anything else."
The way her mouth curled was bitter, angry, sad... Always sad. She was choking on it, piled up like bile in her throat. Foul, tasting like whiskey, smoke and honey wine, too sweet and cloying. If only something would burn, or hurt. Like fangs biting down on her neck, like claws raking down her spine.
And soon you are forgotten
A whisper within a sigh
A whisper within a sigh
