thea perkins đź—ˇ cyra noavek (cyra) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2019-03-11 20:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | !narrative, * kit, c: thea stone |
WHO: Thea Perkins
WHEN: Tuesday, March 12, 2019; Morning
WHERE: Her apartment!
SUMMARY: Thea remembers her most recent dreams and reflects on the things that bring both her and Cyra joy.
WARNINGS: Mentions of pain
Long after Thea had woken up, she could feel the drums beating in her chest. They were her heartbeat, the sound of her blood, her life, surging through her veins and they beat in time with the hot water beating against her skin as she leaned back beneath the steady stream of her showerhead. And, while such a feeling might have once concerned her or been attributed to something like heart palpitations, the memory of the drums brought her something akin to joy. There had been little of Cyra’s memories that had been enjoyable for Thea. If she thought her own struggle with pain was sometimes unbearable, it felt like it paled in comparison with what Cyra held inside of her day in and day out. Memories of her mother were soured by the memory of what she’d done to her, and neither Ryzek nor her father could appear in her dreams without the memories of another family from another lifetime accompanying them. But the drums. The drums were good. The blue hue of the fenzu lights, and the feeling of her hand clasped unceremoniously in Akos’ was good. She wondered if he really understood what that touch meant to her, that touch that anyone but her would take for granted. “You’ve been nice to me recently,” Cyra had said, “You’re being nice to me now. Why? What’s in it for you?” Thea was no stranger to an inherently suspicious nature but, once again, her own paled in comparison to the necessity of Cyra’s. “We spend a lot of time together, Cyra. Being nice is a matter of survival.” Was that why she’d felt the warmth of the way he’d look at her, dressed in purple with blue paint obscuring half of her face, and why she’d given him the dagger, or shared her love of her people, her culture, of the cultures they’d scavenged over the seasons? She loved the Sojourn festival. It was the kind of love that settled deep inside of her bones beneath the pain and the fear and the anger and she was sharing a piece of that with Akos. Cyra didn’t know it, but Thea did--Akos was exactly the kind of person Cyra could love. Thea knew it because she felt the drums when she thought of Gareth’s smile, and she saw him in Akos’ quiet curiosity, and the way he looked at Cyra without knowing how he looked at her. And as the water flowed down her shoulders and pooled into Thea’s cupped hands, she remembered the blue rain that fell around Cyra and Akos. “Blue is our favorite color,” she had said. “The color of the currentstream when we scavenge.” “When I was a child,” Akos had replied, wonder in his voice, “it was my favorite color, too, though all of Thuvhe hates it.” She remembered Cyra’s lightness as she cupped the water in her hand and reached out to smear it over Akos’ cheek. It was such a stark contrast to the weight Cyra always carried with her, perpetually crushed beneath it. And then they were running, arm in arm, Cyra and Gareth and Thea and Akos. And they were laughing. And Thea was laughing, too, spluttering water as she tilted her head back. It was a good memory, one that reminded her that it didn’t matter the lifetime, the galaxy, or the circumstances, she and Gareth would always find each other. It gave her hope that--just maybe--they could have a happy ending there. It made her want their happy ending here even more than she usually did, too. Thea leaned down and turned the shower off before grabbing a towel to wrap herself in. Today was going to be a good day. Maybe it wasn’t a Sojourn festival, and maybe she wasn’t about to be caught in blue rain with Gareth, but it was her birthday. And she was prepared to make even better memories with him than the glimpses of happiness Cyra could give her. She didn’t need a Sojourn festival to feel the drums--that was what Gareth was for, after all. |