. (siri) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-06-15 01:25:00 |
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It is not an often occurrence that she finds herself on the frosty ground of the Feywoods, the cold slithers over her, invisible strands of ice that curl inwardly piercing skin like the bite of a snake. Siri arches her back as the cold holds still, and her eyes find no sky, no canopy, no mist. (That she is in he Feywoods is indubitable, she knows this place that is no story to her, but a constant haunting reality). Edges of cliffs were no foreign territory, the vast abyss of nothing on one side (and when you dare look into it, it looks back at you spitting out Madness and Rage). Sometimes, hell would reach up from below and beckon sweetly to jump and burn. Licking flames that split her flesh until she was brittle bones covered with ash. Hell, however, was always below her feet, never above her head - as if someone had rolled it up in their arms to blot out the sun (because this world was not blessed, but cursed). She can hear the echoes of pleas, the voices (too many, too many to cram in her head; it split her skull in half and then they could stare inside her. Peeling off layer by layer and savouring as it disappeared among them). One. Two. Thr Four. Her heart follows that beat as it comes — one,two,three,four. Open the gate. It breathes and glows. It burns and snarls. It blinds and screams (screamscreamscream). The ruins are as she remembers, the broken rock path digging into the divots of her spine, she can’t see the broken doors and crumbled towers or the trickling water that may have once been part of a fountain. They’re there though, this is as certain as the fact she is breathing the icy air that climbs up when exhaled. This. City. Whispers. It tells her names and places — moments and deaths — time and nothing (because there is always something in the nothing, nothing is truly nothing — it is made of thing that have no name or shape and cannot be perceived with human eyes). Whispers the name with dry lips and she sees Theo laying next to her; his armour: metal, flames, horns. They smile, his is small at first — it widens like a gap — a hole — those white, white knives that adorn the edges until (suspended). He moves and morphs into something else, more as he engulfs the world — She doesn’t fall in, it is he who eats her whole. Swallowed in one sigh, jaws snapping shut she is ripped apart not by teeth but scorching heat and cold, screaming until she awakes with the taste of both. |