Ophelia
“Yes, please,” they clarify serenely, folding their hands eagerly around the spine of their journal. Ghostlike eyes never blinking, having no need to; a habit they’d had well before their Ascension, but only worsened now. It somehow doesn’t look too strange. Perhaps it’s the general warmth of their expression. It only warms further as Nikolai offers a seat, and they flutter like a small bird into the space, folds of their dress bunching like preserved flower petals.
Though they would normally respond to the information he has freely shared, they don’t have a chance before Nikolai is finding a poem and beginning to read. It is like a spell comes over them, drawing them into the ebb and flow of his voice and holding them there, the words rolling overhead like waves. Though their eyes follow the pattern of words alongside his speech, it is a distant thing. Instead there is imagery and color, swallowing them down and coating their insides with paint-covered hands. It makes them shiver.
They don’t need to breathe, but it comes out in a shudder reflexively, habitually, when Nikolai finishes. Their head tips, and eyes flutter closed, soaking in the meaning in the aftermath.
“You have a beautiful voice,” is the awed murmur they manage eventually, eyes opening. Glancing down at the page, their head tilts curiously at it. “I wonder if Ascended ever made poetry. Do you write any?”
Though they would normally respond to the information he has freely shared, they don’t have a chance before Nikolai is finding a poem and beginning to read. It is like a spell comes over them, drawing them into the ebb and flow of his voice and holding them there, the words rolling overhead like waves. Though their eyes follow the pattern of words alongside his speech, it is a distant thing. Instead there is imagery and color, swallowing them down and coating their insides with paint-covered hands. It makes them shiver.
They don’t need to breathe, but it comes out in a shudder reflexively, habitually, when Nikolai finishes. Their head tips, and eyes flutter closed, soaking in the meaning in the aftermath.
“You have a beautiful voice,” is the awed murmur they manage eventually, eyes opening. Glancing down at the page, their head tilts curiously at it. “I wonder if Ascended ever made poetry. Do you write any?”
it's peaceful in the deep, either way you cannot breathe
no need to pray - no need to speak
no need to pray - no need to speak
