Ophelia
Their steed is no familiar companion, a working creature more than an emotional tie, but here they are together in the moonlit streets. A fated pair. As such, Ophelia gives the horse his fair share of attention and respect, and when twin peaked ears swivel in the dark towards something Ophelia cannot personally hear.
The clicking of something against stone echoes strangle across dilapidated brick and stone. It reminds them of the bats in the barn, chittering odd echoing noises to one another in the twilight. Eerie blues scan the long clustered shadows, but once the newcomer is in sight there is no denying their presence; pale hair is radiant beneath the moon overhead, alabaster skin a beacon in the darkness. In this they are the same. Ophelia watches with keen eyes, not daring to be hopeful until they have come close enough to pause and speak. Only then does their heart rabbit, useless human pulse betraying optimism.
A long-fingered hand strokes the horse’s neck as it shies slightly from the man. “Any who will guide me to The Voice,” they murmur, as if physically incapable of raising their voice any higher. Still, it is projected as much as they can, watchful eyes peering down from their perch and noting the inherent blindness of their potential savior. If their voice can be a guide, perhaps they can be of use to one another. “I wish to become bright.” Here there is an uncharacteristic ache of emotion present in their voice. A desperation, a longing. They have waited so long to be free of their shackles, and the blood on their dress and flaking off bare feet is the last chain broken at last.
The clicking of something against stone echoes strangle across dilapidated brick and stone. It reminds them of the bats in the barn, chittering odd echoing noises to one another in the twilight. Eerie blues scan the long clustered shadows, but once the newcomer is in sight there is no denying their presence; pale hair is radiant beneath the moon overhead, alabaster skin a beacon in the darkness. In this they are the same. Ophelia watches with keen eyes, not daring to be hopeful until they have come close enough to pause and speak. Only then does their heart rabbit, useless human pulse betraying optimism.
A long-fingered hand strokes the horse’s neck as it shies slightly from the man. “Any who will guide me to The Voice,” they murmur, as if physically incapable of raising their voice any higher. Still, it is projected as much as they can, watchful eyes peering down from their perch and noting the inherent blindness of their potential savior. If their voice can be a guide, perhaps they can be of use to one another. “I wish to become bright.” Here there is an uncharacteristic ache of emotion present in their voice. A desperation, a longing. They have waited so long to be free of their shackles, and the blood on their dress and flaking off bare feet is the last chain broken at last.
With your naive heart you praise God above
But how's it working for you honey? Do you feel loved?
But how's it working for you honey? Do you feel loved?
