[/img]"http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f206/Blade_Redwind/db3670dd-5a99-46f3-b3a1-b12a2f32508c.png" style="max-width:25%;float:left;margin:0 18px;" style="avatar] Cry as he might, she would not hear him, she would not feel him, and the impact he set upon the barrier would do nothing more than be noted like the tick of a clock in the back of her subconscious: she could hear it, but she knew now was not the moment to act. Her barrier stood; his will was impossible over her own.
Within his mind she willed her form to stop, a form that existed as nothing more than she willed it to appear. The long braid holding her hair back thumped against her back as the man departed. As the world faded into something darker, something more depraved, she could hear the song. It was something she was not entirely prepared for, that noise. It pushed beyond the guards she placed to protect herself, trying to break them down. Her jaw flexed and her eyes narrowed, her whole face morphing into half pain as she reinforced what guards she had.
Calandra would not have this trouble, she thought. Calandra would have been prepared. But then, her sister likely would not have forced herself into another’s mind, even if Draco ordered it himself.
The sword in her hand dissipated like fragments of light fading from her grip. Here, she imagined as she stepped inward, pushing back against the hymn with sheer force of will, she did not need it.
The tree overtook the room, she noted. Thoughts, desires, linger doubts, and pain… images. She took a deep inhale, metaphorical as it was. She did not need to breathe; this body was not real. It was only as real as she made it.
Garnet orbs settled on the throne, on the man, gentle and soft. The song felt like a steel wind; it cut into her as needles in a storm—ice pricking at skin that did not truly exist. And she did her best to ignore it, though the plague fought on to overtake her.
She was not suited for this. Healing the mind was not her strong suit. She had always been better and breaking bones and tearing men asunder. But she would strive on.
Duty.
The word echoed in her own mind; as it was connected to his, her thoughts became an echo that mixed with the song, like a single heartbeat that drummed once and died—bouncing off walls that were not truly there beyond what he made them to be.
“You ache,” she found herself whispering after he finished speaking. She ached as well; sweat pooled along her brow and the wind-song thrust her hair, her body, asunder. The braid came undone as her felt her knees buckling with the ache. The pressure the song placed on her guards was difficult to maintain. The barrier keeping her body safe would not last long if she were not careful.
It’s not real, she told herself, hearing her own voice echo in the room.
“I will not leave until I have finished the course I have set myself on, Reaper,” she told him finally as she fell to her knees. Gloved hands gripped the floor as the curtain of her hair became unraveled and fell over her back, her shoulder, and pool to the side of her like silk the color of pitch.
Give me strength, she asked next and those words echoed in the room as well. She could feel her guards crumbling, cracking, against the song. She could not let them, she could not allow herself to become lost now—not in this vinework of catastrophe of half wishes and wants—insanity brought on by hopelessness and despair.
It did not help that something within her hurt, that something within her cried out that she knew this—so much of this. It was caught in her throat—choking and unable to rip forth.
Seph...! her mind shouted, cried, aloud in the room.
“Nay!” she ordered aloud sternly, almost unable to stop whatever pain would not go, that sought to connect with whatever was present here.
It was suffocating, all consuming, that pain. It made the wind-song on the outside seeking to enter beyond her guards pale in comparison. And yet, beyond that, beyond all of that pain and agony she did not expect, something came alight—brimming a brewing. A beacon, reaching and telling her to move. It was warm, like a soothing water coursing in her veins and singing with power.
Draco…
That will expanded and the heartbeat of words in her mind became louder with it. It beat like a drum, in tune with the organ in her chest. With each beat came a light—white and nurturing. His light—hers. She forced herself to stand then, legs shaking at first. And when her eyes opened, they were glowing with that same light—meeting his gaze.
“Try as you might,” she said, voice tight and strong, “My will shall overcome yours… Make it easier and allow my aid. You,” she said with an exhale, “need not this false power or ever present agony.” She lifted a hand, touching her chest as her head dropped. “It is killing you, Seph… And death, it was never your gift, but mine.” At the same time, from behind her, a shadow made itself known gently. The silver glow of wings that fought against the darkness around her. The aura that left her then was healing, soothing, coaxing—seeking nothing more but to be allowed to end the pain he surrounded himself in.
What words left felt alien, as if they were not her own, but someone else’s. difficult as it was to fight, unable to understand, she let them be.
Within his mind she willed her form to stop, a form that existed as nothing more than she willed it to appear. The long braid holding her hair back thumped against her back as the man departed. As the world faded into something darker, something more depraved, she could hear the song. It was something she was not entirely prepared for, that noise. It pushed beyond the guards she placed to protect herself, trying to break them down. Her jaw flexed and her eyes narrowed, her whole face morphing into half pain as she reinforced what guards she had.
Calandra would not have this trouble, she thought. Calandra would have been prepared. But then, her sister likely would not have forced herself into another’s mind, even if Draco ordered it himself.
The sword in her hand dissipated like fragments of light fading from her grip. Here, she imagined as she stepped inward, pushing back against the hymn with sheer force of will, she did not need it.
The tree overtook the room, she noted. Thoughts, desires, linger doubts, and pain… images. She took a deep inhale, metaphorical as it was. She did not need to breathe; this body was not real. It was only as real as she made it.
Garnet orbs settled on the throne, on the man, gentle and soft. The song felt like a steel wind; it cut into her as needles in a storm—ice pricking at skin that did not truly exist. And she did her best to ignore it, though the plague fought on to overtake her.
She was not suited for this. Healing the mind was not her strong suit. She had always been better and breaking bones and tearing men asunder. But she would strive on.
Duty.
The word echoed in her own mind; as it was connected to his, her thoughts became an echo that mixed with the song, like a single heartbeat that drummed once and died—bouncing off walls that were not truly there beyond what he made them to be.
“You ache,” she found herself whispering after he finished speaking. She ached as well; sweat pooled along her brow and the wind-song thrust her hair, her body, asunder. The braid came undone as her felt her knees buckling with the ache. The pressure the song placed on her guards was difficult to maintain. The barrier keeping her body safe would not last long if she were not careful.
It’s not real, she told herself, hearing her own voice echo in the room.
“I will not leave until I have finished the course I have set myself on, Reaper,” she told him finally as she fell to her knees. Gloved hands gripped the floor as the curtain of her hair became unraveled and fell over her back, her shoulder, and pool to the side of her like silk the color of pitch.
Give me strength, she asked next and those words echoed in the room as well. She could feel her guards crumbling, cracking, against the song. She could not let them, she could not allow herself to become lost now—not in this vinework of catastrophe of half wishes and wants—insanity brought on by hopelessness and despair.
It did not help that something within her hurt, that something within her cried out that she knew this—so much of this. It was caught in her throat—choking and unable to rip forth.
Seph...! her mind shouted, cried, aloud in the room.
“Nay!” she ordered aloud sternly, almost unable to stop whatever pain would not go, that sought to connect with whatever was present here.
It was suffocating, all consuming, that pain. It made the wind-song on the outside seeking to enter beyond her guards pale in comparison. And yet, beyond that, beyond all of that pain and agony she did not expect, something came alight—brimming a brewing. A beacon, reaching and telling her to move. It was warm, like a soothing water coursing in her veins and singing with power.
Draco…
That will expanded and the heartbeat of words in her mind became louder with it. It beat like a drum, in tune with the organ in her chest. With each beat came a light—white and nurturing. His light—hers. She forced herself to stand then, legs shaking at first. And when her eyes opened, they were glowing with that same light—meeting his gaze.
“Try as you might,” she said, voice tight and strong, “My will shall overcome yours… Make it easier and allow my aid. You,” she said with an exhale, “need not this false power or ever present agony.” She lifted a hand, touching her chest as her head dropped. “It is killing you, Seph… And death, it was never your gift, but mine.” At the same time, from behind her, a shadow made itself known gently. The silver glow of wings that fought against the darkness around her. The aura that left her then was healing, soothing, coaxing—seeking nothing more but to be allowed to end the pain he surrounded himself in.
What words left felt alien, as if they were not her own, but someone else’s. difficult as it was to fight, unable to understand, she let them be.
Sometimes I feel like a girl~... sometimes I don't~
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RE: The Underground..The Eye of Death. 1x1 Blade and Sarki. - by sarki - 11-29-2015, 08:15 AM
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