if i let go, would you hold on, would we fly?
is it safer if we just say that we tried?
There’s the smell of iron along the blade as he presses it against her wrist, dripping with red as she suddenly disappears and he pants, a searing cold shifting down his spine as she walks through him. He inhales a deep breath of cold and his jaw clenches as he staggers a bit forward, feeling the demigod step through him. His eyes shut tight, staggering forward for a mere moment to try and recover while her words alight the air.
And when he opens them again, he can see the brief pale figure in his peripheral vision, gritting his teeth against it.
So he turns, slowly, a haunted gaze lingering on Delphia and trying to avoid the scents that suddenly surround him, that remind him of the wisteria of his home, of the way white wings had splayed in the sunlight, the way the sun seemed to glimmer in the river on pale eyelashes and a deep scarlet flush. He swallows hard, breath still heavy, throat tight despite how he tries to quell it.
“Do you think you’re trying to save me?” He manages, a rough hoarse voice, arms dropping to his sides as he goes to put the daggers away and turn a bit more fully toward her with the chill in the air. Internally, it feels like he’s giving up, if he lets go this soon. It feels wrong, hurting far deeper than any other wounds. “I am very much alive. Just because you’re the daughter of Mort doesn’t mean you get to dictate every thought I have. I don’t care if you don’t think I didn’t love her. I know I did. She knew it too.” He knows she’s there, right now, listening.
He’s frankly too torn up to be reasonable and rational at this moment.
“I am tired Delphia, of getting close to people only for this place to take them away. I’m so fucking tired of it.” It’s not an apology, but it might be as close as she gets right now.
And when he opens them again, he can see the brief pale figure in his peripheral vision, gritting his teeth against it.
So he turns, slowly, a haunted gaze lingering on Delphia and trying to avoid the scents that suddenly surround him, that remind him of the wisteria of his home, of the way white wings had splayed in the sunlight, the way the sun seemed to glimmer in the river on pale eyelashes and a deep scarlet flush. He swallows hard, breath still heavy, throat tight despite how he tries to quell it.
“Do you think you’re trying to save me?” He manages, a rough hoarse voice, arms dropping to his sides as he goes to put the daggers away and turn a bit more fully toward her with the chill in the air. Internally, it feels like he’s giving up, if he lets go this soon. It feels wrong, hurting far deeper than any other wounds. “I am very much alive. Just because you’re the daughter of Mort doesn’t mean you get to dictate every thought I have. I don’t care if you don’t think I didn’t love her. I know I did. She knew it too.” He knows she’s there, right now, listening.
He’s frankly too torn up to be reasonable and rational at this moment.
“I am tired Delphia, of getting close to people only for this place to take them away. I’m so fucking tired of it.” It’s not an apology, but it might be as close as she gets right now.
are we laughing at the danger?
are we dancing after death, you and I?
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
