Frozen fingers, toppled skies

[diva_myron]

Date: 31 March 2007
Time: Closer to evening
Location: Deirdre's flat
Characters Involved: Myron Wagtail and Deirdre Burke
Rating: PG-13 or thereabouts

Comments

[deirdre_ivy]

Once, in the harsh clicking glass gears that broke the rhythm of things between the night and the day, she remembered Geoff coming to see her. He’d knocked and knocked, she thought she recalled, until his drumming at the door was just a dull thrumming beneath her vacant pulse. After he left, she made it downstairs, clutching her white robe around her shoulders

[diva_myron]

Breezes, black paints, newspaper commercials dimming in the background of his mind-- and useless soliloquys, must not forget! - all was gone, withering away into the far away horizon, leaving him breathless, powerless, almost beaten. As he looked upon her. Like a dying swan, black and silver, sanguine streaks through and through, she was sinking into the beneath of sticky liquid... [WAKE UP!] His throat was agonizing, burning, destroyed forever by an army of cruel arabs on their winged horses, and he could no longer speak, no longer sing, no longer breathe. Only his fingers around hers clutched ever stronger, trembling

[diva_myron]

"Hush, little child," he said quietly, smiling at her, as he lifted her chin with a finger. "I will tell you a tale now, of eastern wind and butterflies. And a tree-faerie, who hovered above, needing no one, reckless and free." Myron genuflected before her, a troubadour forever lost in his lady's arms, before rising up and joining her on the couch, as he continued. "And a man, who was broken and fractured into tiny shards of deceit and oblivion. And mischievous magi, who mixed up all their cards."

Myron grinned, the mentioned mischief lighting up in his own eyes, slowly, gently, irrevocably, as he embraced Deirdre tenderly. (The time for darkness was gone, even in the face of twilight.)

"The man spent all his days amidst crowds of words, scattered around, flying upward and downward and eastward and westward, until one day-- when the wind changed its direction. It was a fine summerly day," he spoke, getting carried away with the narration, as he caressed her hair softly. There were ribbons of red and shimmering stars and silken hair

[deirdre_ivy]

(--her eyes widened and then flickered closed, brows fluttering o so fractionally in a miniature, contained, quiet explosion of the unspeakable ___ )

Deirdre let his lips move lightly over hers for a moment, without moving beyond the ashen shell that had become her body. She was so rarely kissed--that is, it was she that normally did the kissing--that every fragment of time that she could exist this way was precious. In Life, her bones had been strong, and she would push them up against the wall and take control when she wished it, and banish them from her life when she wished them gone.

But this! It was such a delicate thing that she was afraid his touch would evaporate into the unspoken wishes of her soul, into nothingness, if she moved. She'd spent so long holding this at arms' length. It had taken all she had, and now, she had nothing. She had left her door open, and he had arrived.

Before: "Vague and quaint imaginings had haunted [her] in the days [past] when her intellect had scintillated like a star, that the world

[diva_myron]

The dying light trickled around them for the last few swirls, before disappearing behind those mountains that never come close. Sometimes when his wounds of heart ached more, Myron liked walking towards them, as if in quiet defiance of the impossible. Every step taken in that direction brought him a droplet of hope, dropping into his impetuous ocean of existence. Eastern wind would blow into his back, prompting him to walk faster and more, and his hair would be all messy. (A stubborn line separating his lips twitching lopsidedly- a tall Thin Man, like a winding silhouette against all odds, trenchcoat and moccasins. And petulant clouds racing over the sky

[deirdre_ivy]

Her face was dappled with light-shadows. There were little spots of gray being shattered and stirred and blown away by the puffed up clouds outside the window, all of the coming and past moments making a fast-forward film across the canvas of their bodies. They were illuminated in the fading glow of the past sunset. In the space of a gasp [unfolding daisies and thunderstorms with charged tongues of searing white lightning and rain that soaks through her thin blue dress, quivering, the note in her fingers, tearing, ink running over her fingers; the grass clinging wetly to her legs and bare feet; hair in wet ropes as a rumble of sky growling knocks the leaves from the trees and she opens her eyes] : spring

[deirdre_ivy]

But then he spoke again, and she finally allowed herself to look at him without moving, without squirming nervously away from the microscope for fear she might give in. She fell and fell and fell [and was righted]. And when his voice whispered through her eyes, she was astounded that she did not crumble to ash and whish away in the breeze right then and there. But she was whole. She could not speak, but