Lark starts to say your old name, as you brush her hair away from her face, but catches herself on the first syllable at your sharp expression. She settles on the last character of your name—"Rain. ...I missed you."
"Every day—every day I wished I'd gone with you. That I'd said yes." You shake your head, with a small smile. "I thought that I'd never get a chance again—so, I couldn't let myself make the same mistake."
You tune out the voices always at your ears, in whispers, speaking of hunger and light that must be blotted out, and bend down to kiss her.
For a split second it's brilliant, and warm, and she kisses you back, her fingers tugging at the collar of your cloak, and then—
The voices scream in your ears, and your thoughts are overtaken pain as first the scars criss-crossing your arms and legs start bleeding fresh. Stumbling back, you look down as a dark wet patch blossoms on your shirt, over your stomach. The world spins, and goes dark.
When you wake up, Lark is kneeling beside you, her face set in lines of worry and her hands bloodied with the effort of bandaging you; your campfire has burned itself out to ashes, and the two of you sit in the center of a perfect, ten-pace circle of newly dead and rotting vegetation. At least Lark's unharmed, though the mark on her forehead is now glowing brightly, the only light in the clearing.
She offers a hand to help you up; you stare at it for a moment, then shake your head and pull yourself to your feet on your own.
Notable:
White-haired, pale Shrike this time.
"Rain" seems to be a name for Shrike, but that's just part of a longer name.
She seems to have some other name that starts with a hard "K" sound?
Hey that symbol on Lark's forehead might seem familiar to certain people?
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softlyfalling) wrote2019-01-24 12:53 am
memory 008
"Every day—every day I wished I'd gone with you. That I'd said yes." You shake your head, with a small smile. "I thought that I'd never get a chance again—so, I couldn't let myself make the same mistake."
You tune out the voices always at your ears, in whispers, speaking of hunger and light that must be blotted out, and bend down to kiss her.
For a split second it's brilliant, and warm, and she kisses you back, her fingers tugging at the collar of your cloak, and then—
The voices scream in your ears, and your thoughts are overtaken pain as first the scars criss-crossing your arms and legs start bleeding fresh. Stumbling back, you look down as a dark wet patch blossoms on your shirt, over your stomach. The world spins, and goes dark.
When you wake up, Lark is kneeling beside you, her face set in lines of worry and her hands bloodied with the effort of bandaging you; your campfire has burned itself out to ashes, and the two of you sit in the center of a perfect, ten-pace circle of newly dead and rotting vegetation. At least Lark's unharmed, though the mark on her forehead is now glowing brightly, the only light in the clearing.
She offers a hand to help you up; you stare at it for a moment, then shake your head and pull yourself to your feet on your own.
Notable: