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The smell of blood is in her hair.
Blood, salt spray, and the heartbreaking fragrance that is uniquely hers as we lie together on the carriage floor. Entwined.
Wheels grind slowly down the track - rust to rust, skidding up the long-dead dust - the unsteady movement a glorious reminder that we’re still alive, we survived, and we’re moving away.
Away, steadily away from the cliffs, from the station, from the floating junk and the black shadow smoke.
Away.
Together.
The words chime gently against each other in my soul.
Her protector sits opposite, in the only seat not completely rusted through, staring intently at his charge. His gaze seems empty, void of feeling - but the link in there, below the surface: a prophetic chain of blood and steel, bound tense by love.
A different sort of love then ours - the calm, ancient love of duty, of sacrifice. Slow to take hold, shy to share, but no less powerful for it - through ages it blooms into something transcendent, righteous, relentless.
Though his eyes are cold, his hands still, his heart is ripping itself apart inside - poorly balanced on an immemorial set of scales that hold hers higher. And the stare take nothing from our own privacy - if anything, the shell of love around us strengthens still. The traditional love that has bound us so tightly together.
On we roll, a silent triangle of hope and power, on through the moors where the bladed horizon cuts the sky and makes it bleed thick, dark clouds. All that is left with us is the smell - a dark, twisted, hanging smell of the shadow smoke, clinging harmlessly to the tattered scraps of fabric.
I still don’t really know what happened there at the edge of the cliffs. But I know what I saw - the floating junk, sunk deep in the bay, and her pale, fragile hand slipping from mine. The creeping smoke, the cracks of black light, the red blisters, the rotten air and her perfect figure, gone, gone, gone - for so many minutes, away. All flashing through my mind, never enough to make sense, mixed up with the shock of the ice-water, and the pain of the smoke-touch.
She stirs slightly against me, a frown briefly creasing her lips - as though my memory has disturbed her revival. I must store those thoughts away for now - perhaps, one day, far away from here, I’ll be ready to remember again.
But now she must rest and recover what was lost. Such power resides in these childlike fingers, translucent in the sharp beams of light piercing through the cloud. She must rest, and regain again, undisturbed where our minds meet.
My gaze trails away from her beauty - something else catches the light.
A single tear from her protector’s blank eyes, glittering sincerity. His long white hair - the only sign of any age on the man - has fallen around his face, and his hands are shaking ever so slightly on top of the black cane he carries.
The smoke smell coils inside my nostrils, tighter now, stronger.
The tear falls, and again there is only her fragrance and steady hands.
A new picture joins the rest. I see his brilliant white hair in the wind, the cliffs behind. Again the shock of the water, and a weight in my arms. He isn’t moving.
I’m pulled away from the image - new eyes are on me, beauty beyond words, power and grace, love and kindness in twin emerald suns. The close-lipped, wholly natural smile stretches across me - only pulled perfectly when the heart directs the muscles.
She pushes in closer to me, if it were possible for two people to be any closer, and tilts her face towards me, the eyes all I see. That tiny frown cases her features again, mirroring mine now.
There is black amongst the green.
The smoke coils around her eyes - a shark circling in tropical water, a flaw rippling through the perfect gem. How?
How?
I stare across at her protector as she places one of her tiny hands on my frantic chest, disbelief my only hook. He knows. Perhaps he has always known, and just wanted to give us just a few more hours together - together in love, as he never could be.
Still I stare.
He nods once, the slight, miniscule movement tearing everything down - shredding it all to nothing, ripping out the lines. I look back to her, broken, and open my mouth to speak - once, twice, but the bloody fragments of my heart are caught in my throat. And there is nothing to talk to.
She is gone.
The smoke has coiled tight around her eyes, strangling the green to black, taking back her victory.
Gone.
He stands - through the pain-rent tears, the hazy gauze of my half-soul - he looks the same as always. The same as he did back under the cliffs - just standing there, motionless, inside the scales tipping in the wrong direction. Defeated.
He places a hand on my shoulder - whether for my support or his, I can’t tell.
I can only nod helplessly through everything but love, begging silently for him to do one last duty. He places his black cane in my hands, and seems somehow less without it.
I fumble for her cooling hand as the needle slides in - the silver sliver he keeps primed in his pocket for his second charge. For me.
And in a second there is darkness, a thick blanket slightly smothering the pain. The razor horizon cuts deeper into the sky, reeling the clouds out faster.
I fall away, the cane in my hand, my hair flared brilliant white against the black.
It is only a second more of torture and the gentle grip on my hand returns.
Blood, salt spray, and the heartbreaking fragrance that is uniquely hers as we lie together on the carriage floor. Entwined.
Wheels grind slowly down the track - rust to rust, skidding up the long-dead dust - the unsteady movement a glorious reminder that we’re still alive, we survived, and we’re moving away.
Away, steadily away from the cliffs, from the station, from the floating junk and the black shadow smoke.
Away.
Together.
The words chime gently against each other in my soul.
Her protector sits opposite, in the only seat not completely rusted through, staring intently at his charge. His gaze seems empty, void of feeling - but the link in there, below the surface: a prophetic chain of blood and steel, bound tense by love.
A different sort of love then ours - the calm, ancient love of duty, of sacrifice. Slow to take hold, shy to share, but no less powerful for it - through ages it blooms into something transcendent, righteous, relentless.
Though his eyes are cold, his hands still, his heart is ripping itself apart inside - poorly balanced on an immemorial set of scales that hold hers higher. And the stare take nothing from our own privacy - if anything, the shell of love around us strengthens still. The traditional love that has bound us so tightly together.
On we roll, a silent triangle of hope and power, on through the moors where the bladed horizon cuts the sky and makes it bleed thick, dark clouds. All that is left with us is the smell - a dark, twisted, hanging smell of the shadow smoke, clinging harmlessly to the tattered scraps of fabric.
I still don’t really know what happened there at the edge of the cliffs. But I know what I saw - the floating junk, sunk deep in the bay, and her pale, fragile hand slipping from mine. The creeping smoke, the cracks of black light, the red blisters, the rotten air and her perfect figure, gone, gone, gone - for so many minutes, away. All flashing through my mind, never enough to make sense, mixed up with the shock of the ice-water, and the pain of the smoke-touch.
She stirs slightly against me, a frown briefly creasing her lips - as though my memory has disturbed her revival. I must store those thoughts away for now - perhaps, one day, far away from here, I’ll be ready to remember again.
But now she must rest and recover what was lost. Such power resides in these childlike fingers, translucent in the sharp beams of light piercing through the cloud. She must rest, and regain again, undisturbed where our minds meet.
My gaze trails away from her beauty - something else catches the light.
A single tear from her protector’s blank eyes, glittering sincerity. His long white hair - the only sign of any age on the man - has fallen around his face, and his hands are shaking ever so slightly on top of the black cane he carries.
The smoke smell coils inside my nostrils, tighter now, stronger.
The tear falls, and again there is only her fragrance and steady hands.
A new picture joins the rest. I see his brilliant white hair in the wind, the cliffs behind. Again the shock of the water, and a weight in my arms. He isn’t moving.
I’m pulled away from the image - new eyes are on me, beauty beyond words, power and grace, love and kindness in twin emerald suns. The close-lipped, wholly natural smile stretches across me - only pulled perfectly when the heart directs the muscles.
She pushes in closer to me, if it were possible for two people to be any closer, and tilts her face towards me, the eyes all I see. That tiny frown cases her features again, mirroring mine now.
There is black amongst the green.
The smoke coils around her eyes - a shark circling in tropical water, a flaw rippling through the perfect gem. How?
How?
I stare across at her protector as she places one of her tiny hands on my frantic chest, disbelief my only hook. He knows. Perhaps he has always known, and just wanted to give us just a few more hours together - together in love, as he never could be.
Still I stare.
He nods once, the slight, miniscule movement tearing everything down - shredding it all to nothing, ripping out the lines. I look back to her, broken, and open my mouth to speak - once, twice, but the bloody fragments of my heart are caught in my throat. And there is nothing to talk to.
She is gone.
The smoke has coiled tight around her eyes, strangling the green to black, taking back her victory.
Gone.
He stands - through the pain-rent tears, the hazy gauze of my half-soul - he looks the same as always. The same as he did back under the cliffs - just standing there, motionless, inside the scales tipping in the wrong direction. Defeated.
He places a hand on my shoulder - whether for my support or his, I can’t tell.
I can only nod helplessly through everything but love, begging silently for him to do one last duty. He places his black cane in my hands, and seems somehow less without it.
I fumble for her cooling hand as the needle slides in - the silver sliver he keeps primed in his pocket for his second charge. For me.
And in a second there is darkness, a thick blanket slightly smothering the pain. The razor horizon cuts deeper into the sky, reeling the clouds out faster.
I fall away, the cane in my hand, my hair flared brilliant white against the black.
It is only a second more of torture and the gentle grip on my hand returns.
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Top stuff.
A Gothic Romance flavour, like a - licourice salad.
A Gothic Romance flavour, like a - licourice salad.
Absolutely delectable. Especially the line:
but the bloody fragments of my heart are caught in my throat.
A nickable line if ever I read one :)
but the bloody fragments of my heart are caught in my throat.
A nickable line if ever I read one :)
straight in there FFF. I'll read it later
The smell of blood is in her hair.
Blood, salt spray, and the heartbreaking fragrance that is uniquely hers as we lie together on the carriage floor. Entwined.
Wheels grind slowly down the track - rust to rust, skidding up the long-dead dust - the unsteady movement a glorious reminder that we’re still alive, we survived, and we’re moving away.
Away, steadily away from the cliffs, from the station, from the floating junk and the black shadow smoke.
Away.
Together.
The words chime gently against each other in my soul.
Her protector sits opposite, in the only seat not completely rusted through, staring intently at his charge. His gaze seems empty, void of feeling - but the link in there, below the surface: a prophetic chain of blood and steel, bound tense by love.
A different sort of love then ours - the calm, ancient love of duty, of sacrifice. Slow to take hold, shy to share, but no less powerful for it - through ages it blooms into something transcendent, righteous, relentless.
Though his eyes are cold, his hands still, his heart is ripping itself apart inside - poorly balanced on an immemorial set of scales that hold hers higher. And the stare take nothing from our own privacy - if anything, the shell of love around us strengthens still. The traditional love that has bound us so tightly together.
On we roll, a silent triangle of hope and power, on through the moors where the bladed horizon cuts the sky and makes it bleed thick, dark clouds. All that is left with us is the smell - a dark, twisted, hanging smell of the shadow smoke, clinging harmlessly to the tattered scraps of fabric.
I still don’t really know what happened there at the edge of the cliffs. But I know what I saw - the floating junk, sunk deep in the bay, and her pale, fragile hand slipping from mine. The creeping smoke, the cracks of black light, the red blisters, the rotten air and her perfect figure, gone, gone, gone - for so many minutes, away. All flashing through my mind, never enough to make sense, mixed up with the shock of the ice-water, and the pain of the smoke-touch.
She stirs slightly against me, a frown briefly creasing her lips - as though my memory has disturbed her revival. I must store those thoughts away for now - perhaps, one day, far away from here, I’ll be ready to remember again.
But now she must rest and recover what was lost. Such power resides in these childlike fingers, translucent in the sharp beams of light piercing through the cloud. She must rest, and regain again, undisturbed where our minds meet.
My gaze trails away from her beauty - something else catches the light.
A single tear from her protector’s blank eyes, glittering sincerity. His long white hair - the only sign of any age on the man - has fallen around his face, and his hands are shaking ever so slightly on top of the black cane he carries.
The smoke smell coils inside my nostrils, tighter now, stronger.
The tear falls, and again there is only her fragrance and steady hands.
A new picture joins the rest. I see his brilliant white hair in the wind, the cliffs behind. Again the shock of the water, and a weight in my arms. He isn’t moving.
I’m pulled away from the image - new eyes are on me, beauty beyond words, power and grace, love and kindness in twin emerald suns. The close-lipped, wholly natural smile stretches across me - only pulled perfectly when the heart directs the muscles.
She pushes in closer to me, if it were possible for two people to be any closer, and tilts her face towards me, the eyes all I see. That tiny frown cases her features again, mirroring mine now.
There is black amongst the green.
The smoke coils around her eyes - a shark circling in tropical water, a flaw rippling through the perfect gem. How?
How?
I stare across at her protector as she places one of her tiny hands on my frantic chest, disbelief my only hook. He knows. Perhaps he has always known, and just wanted to give us just a few more hours together - together in love, as he never could be.
Still I stare.
He nods once, the slight, miniscule movement tearing everything down - shredding it all to nothing, ripping out the lines. I look back to her, broken, and open my mouth to speak - once, twice, but the bloody fragments of my heart are caught in my throat. And there is nothing to talk to.
She is gone.
The smoke has coiled tight around her eyes, strangling the green to black, taking back her victory.
Gone.
He stands - through the pain-rent tears, the hazy gauze of my half-soul - he looks the same as always. The same as he did back under the cliffs - just standing there, motionless, inside the scales tipping in the wrong direction. Defeated.
He places a hand on my shoulder - whether for my support or his, I can’t tell.
I can only nod helplessly through everything but love, begging silently for him to do one last duty. He places his black cane in my hands, and seems somehow less without it.
I fumble for her cooling hand as the needle slides in - the silver sliver he keeps primed in his pocket for his second charge. For me.
And in a second there is darkness, a thick blanket slightly smothering the pain. The razor horizon cuts deeper into the sky, reeling the clouds out faster.
I fall away, the cane in my hand, my hair flared brilliant white against the black.
It is only a second more of torture and the gentle grip on my hand returns.
Blood, salt spray, and the heartbreaking fragrance that is uniquely hers as we lie together on the carriage floor. Entwined.
Wheels grind slowly down the track - rust to rust, skidding up the long-dead dust - the unsteady movement a glorious reminder that we’re still alive, we survived, and we’re moving away.
Away, steadily away from the cliffs, from the station, from the floating junk and the black shadow smoke.
Away.
Together.
The words chime gently against each other in my soul.
Her protector sits opposite, in the only seat not completely rusted through, staring intently at his charge. His gaze seems empty, void of feeling - but the link in there, below the surface: a prophetic chain of blood and steel, bound tense by love.
A different sort of love then ours - the calm, ancient love of duty, of sacrifice. Slow to take hold, shy to share, but no less powerful for it - through ages it blooms into something transcendent, righteous, relentless.
Though his eyes are cold, his hands still, his heart is ripping itself apart inside - poorly balanced on an immemorial set of scales that hold hers higher. And the stare take nothing from our own privacy - if anything, the shell of love around us strengthens still. The traditional love that has bound us so tightly together.
On we roll, a silent triangle of hope and power, on through the moors where the bladed horizon cuts the sky and makes it bleed thick, dark clouds. All that is left with us is the smell - a dark, twisted, hanging smell of the shadow smoke, clinging harmlessly to the tattered scraps of fabric.
I still don’t really know what happened there at the edge of the cliffs. But I know what I saw - the floating junk, sunk deep in the bay, and her pale, fragile hand slipping from mine. The creeping smoke, the cracks of black light, the red blisters, the rotten air and her perfect figure, gone, gone, gone - for so many minutes, away. All flashing through my mind, never enough to make sense, mixed up with the shock of the ice-water, and the pain of the smoke-touch.
She stirs slightly against me, a frown briefly creasing her lips - as though my memory has disturbed her revival. I must store those thoughts away for now - perhaps, one day, far away from here, I’ll be ready to remember again.
But now she must rest and recover what was lost. Such power resides in these childlike fingers, translucent in the sharp beams of light piercing through the cloud. She must rest, and regain again, undisturbed where our minds meet.
My gaze trails away from her beauty - something else catches the light.
A single tear from her protector’s blank eyes, glittering sincerity. His long white hair - the only sign of any age on the man - has fallen around his face, and his hands are shaking ever so slightly on top of the black cane he carries.
The smoke smell coils inside my nostrils, tighter now, stronger.
The tear falls, and again there is only her fragrance and steady hands.
A new picture joins the rest. I see his brilliant white hair in the wind, the cliffs behind. Again the shock of the water, and a weight in my arms. He isn’t moving.
I’m pulled away from the image - new eyes are on me, beauty beyond words, power and grace, love and kindness in twin emerald suns. The close-lipped, wholly natural smile stretches across me - only pulled perfectly when the heart directs the muscles.
She pushes in closer to me, if it were possible for two people to be any closer, and tilts her face towards me, the eyes all I see. That tiny frown cases her features again, mirroring mine now.
There is black amongst the green.
The smoke coils around her eyes - a shark circling in tropical water, a flaw rippling through the perfect gem. How?
How?
I stare across at her protector as she places one of her tiny hands on my frantic chest, disbelief my only hook. He knows. Perhaps he has always known, and just wanted to give us just a few more hours together - together in love, as he never could be.
Still I stare.
He nods once, the slight, miniscule movement tearing everything down - shredding it all to nothing, ripping out the lines. I look back to her, broken, and open my mouth to speak - once, twice, but the bloody fragments of my heart are caught in my throat. And there is nothing to talk to.
She is gone.
The smoke has coiled tight around her eyes, strangling the green to black, taking back her victory.
Gone.
He stands - through the pain-rent tears, the hazy gauze of my half-soul - he looks the same as always. The same as he did back under the cliffs - just standing there, motionless, inside the scales tipping in the wrong direction. Defeated.
He places a hand on my shoulder - whether for my support or his, I can’t tell.
I can only nod helplessly through everything but love, begging silently for him to do one last duty. He places his black cane in my hands, and seems somehow less without it.
I fumble for her cooling hand as the needle slides in - the silver sliver he keeps primed in his pocket for his second charge. For me.
And in a second there is darkness, a thick blanket slightly smothering the pain. The razor horizon cuts deeper into the sky, reeling the clouds out faster.
I fall away, the cane in my hand, my hair flared brilliant white against the black.
It is only a second more of torture and the gentle grip on my hand returns.
Page: