hope is the thing with feathers

she is like the sun to night

Lena didn’t mind the cold. Lena didn’t mind the heat. Lena didn’t mind the way thorns pricked at her skin as she ran by them; all sources of nature, all beautiful, corresponding notions of life. So while she pretended to flinch at the notions driven from Luciana’s raised hackles, from the conflagration of freezing temperatures (and what would it be like, to parade through the snow until she could lose herself in its essence and glory, until she could feel the rush of danger looming, catching?), or from the assemblage of Abandoned (not half as prejudiced as the rest, because sometimes they were just born that way and had no control and would they all contort into something like the Voice?), intrigue remained.

Whirled, curled, contorted to her mind, like a neatly arranged flower, etchings around petals, adorned in a network of patterns and precision.

Her features placed their elegant pretense, a subtle frown, a wrinkle to her nose, perhaps the most she’d ever be able to portray in her masque of disillusion. “Oh. That’s a shame.” Her fingers traced over one another, none of them soft. “Have you heard of anywhere else?”

Then another inquiry for her as the work continued, fascinating movements and gestures, Luciana always knowing exactly what to do and how to place it. Precise and measured. Cool and collected. “Not that I can think of.”

a momentary gold

Lena

Base Code by Sky!