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[Lost] Closure
Jul. 12th, 2011 07:46 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
http://users.livejournal.com/_crimsonearth/All those moments. Whispers. Shadows.
The hand blown glass hearts that hung in the corner of the room, that had decorated the trees outside when she was so new to the old Freehold, and almost stole the key to the heart of Winter’s clockwork artisan, signalling his long descent to the North. The wolfskin rug on the floor at the foot of the bed where she had sat patiently with Summer’s brightest flame for hours upon hours, teaching him how to change his face when the world was out to finish him. And where she held him while he cried when he felt his brother at arms die, only days before he lay himself down for the smiling killer. The gnarled old chair at the kitchen table where the black king of the South had sat in a bleary, morning slump, soaked in vodka and smiling lazily as she kissed his chiselled jaw and made him coffee. The carved old oak bed, piled high with rugs and cotton sheets, where she had lain with Autumn’s greatest fear and controversy and talked of softer things. The slate and dark wood counter, dusted with flour and scatterings of unswept herbs, where she had, piece by piece, disarmed a restless knight whom she once had left for dead. The dresses and shoes and trinkets, all laid out in turn on the chest of drawers, with which she had made herself a mask and a name and a being who was treasured by the one person who could never see her face. The worn stone floor that sloped toward the sunken bath, where she had watched the blood of half a dozen loyalists and privateers seep away into the dark, endless earth below, thick with her own venom.
This was a place of all that had moulded and created her anew in the aftermath of her escape from the last great mistake. This was everything and nothing.
The sword mount on the wall was empty, the soft gel lights in the alcoves diminishing, the basket of hand-picked fruits from her brighter days on the kitchen table turned rotten and black. The pit outside the door where a great serpent had once made its bed now gathered dust and the littered remnants of small lost things that had scuttled there to die. And the thick, heady scent of fumes rose off of the rugs and rumpled bedsheets as she swayed listlessly in its midst.
And as the flicker of a flame rippled out across the room, chasing the glimmer of petrol, and feasting on the tugging current of air sucking away from the cave, Nemoa thought in a breath and a heartbeat, that she saw the shadows turn to watch her waver, as if they knew that, just for a moment, she dreamed of joining them.
The hand blown glass hearts that hung in the corner of the room, that had decorated the trees outside when she was so new to the old Freehold, and almost stole the key to the heart of Winter’s clockwork artisan, signalling his long descent to the North. The wolfskin rug on the floor at the foot of the bed where she had sat patiently with Summer’s brightest flame for hours upon hours, teaching him how to change his face when the world was out to finish him. And where she held him while he cried when he felt his brother at arms die, only days before he lay himself down for the smiling killer. The gnarled old chair at the kitchen table where the black king of the South had sat in a bleary, morning slump, soaked in vodka and smiling lazily as she kissed his chiselled jaw and made him coffee. The carved old oak bed, piled high with rugs and cotton sheets, where she had lain with Autumn’s greatest fear and controversy and talked of softer things. The slate and dark wood counter, dusted with flour and scatterings of unswept herbs, where she had, piece by piece, disarmed a restless knight whom she once had left for dead. The dresses and shoes and trinkets, all laid out in turn on the chest of drawers, with which she had made herself a mask and a name and a being who was treasured by the one person who could never see her face. The worn stone floor that sloped toward the sunken bath, where she had watched the blood of half a dozen loyalists and privateers seep away into the dark, endless earth below, thick with her own venom.
This was a place of all that had moulded and created her anew in the aftermath of her escape from the last great mistake. This was everything and nothing.
The sword mount on the wall was empty, the soft gel lights in the alcoves diminishing, the basket of hand-picked fruits from her brighter days on the kitchen table turned rotten and black. The pit outside the door where a great serpent had once made its bed now gathered dust and the littered remnants of small lost things that had scuttled there to die. And the thick, heady scent of fumes rose off of the rugs and rumpled bedsheets as she swayed listlessly in its midst.
And as the flicker of a flame rippled out across the room, chasing the glimmer of petrol, and feasting on the tugging current of air sucking away from the cave, Nemoa thought in a breath and a heartbeat, that she saw the shadows turn to watch her waver, as if they knew that, just for a moment, she dreamed of joining them.
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