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Scorched and Torn
Jan. 15th, 2008 11:57 am"I demand nothing." she said quietly. And then she turned her eyes away, lest they betray her. For what shone in them was not a demand, but a plea: "Please, give me permission, please let me love you."
Bust she would not say it.
She would never say it.
She demands nothing, not even her due.
"Why are you so satisfied with your misery?" Desire asked, toying with her sigil absently.
"Because... I could never please my mother," she takes a deep breath, exhales, "so I try to please everyone else."
"Ah. And get walked on. Tell me - do you think it makes them happy?"
She lowers her eyes. "It does not make them upset."
"Not the same thing."
"No."
"Did he scorch every last fiber of romance out of you?"
Her face is full of bitterness, and grief. "I don't know."
"And you won't try to find out."
"How could you know?" Her lip curls, revealing clenched teeth. "Near the end, every gesture, every touch, every thought of him was a short step closer to losing him. How could you understand what it is, to love and yet be ever more silent in your adoration? To love and hold it in? He may not have burnt it out, but he trained it out of me just as effectively."
Later, she stands on the rampart of the Tower, new-Called, and stares out into the vasty roiling emptiness of the City. An obligingly stiff wind springs up, pressing against the folds of her skirt, toying with escaped strands of hair, scraping gently over her outstretched palms. Scraps of paper explode into the air and hang there for a moment, suspended between one element and another. She watches them, a swarm of cream-colored butterflies as they swoop and dart and twirl, and are eventually lost out of sight, past the borders of her domain.
Bust she would not say it.
She would never say it.
She demands nothing, not even her due.
"Why are you so satisfied with your misery?" Desire asked, toying with her sigil absently.
"Because... I could never please my mother," she takes a deep breath, exhales, "so I try to please everyone else."
"Ah. And get walked on. Tell me - do you think it makes them happy?"
She lowers her eyes. "It does not make them upset."
"Not the same thing."
"No."
"Did he scorch every last fiber of romance out of you?"
Her face is full of bitterness, and grief. "I don't know."
"And you won't try to find out."
"How could you know?" Her lip curls, revealing clenched teeth. "Near the end, every gesture, every touch, every thought of him was a short step closer to losing him. How could you understand what it is, to love and yet be ever more silent in your adoration? To love and hold it in? He may not have burnt it out, but he trained it out of me just as effectively."
Later, she stands on the rampart of the Tower, new-Called, and stares out into the vasty roiling emptiness of the City. An obligingly stiff wind springs up, pressing against the folds of her skirt, toying with escaped strands of hair, scraping gently over her outstretched palms. Scraps of paper explode into the air and hang there for a moment, suspended between one element and another. She watches them, a swarm of cream-colored butterflies as they swoop and dart and twirl, and are eventually lost out of sight, past the borders of her domain.
