vignette [ bright colors ]
Who: Sulizath, Fadra
A quick vignette from Sulizath's POV.
She is never alone when she sleeps. Her dreams play like movies that emblazon across thier mind bright enough to stir him from sleep and keep him awake, vivid enough to keep him entranced for the hours when she's not conscious.
He always notes the same things: she's always much smaller, and there's always water and wind and seabirds flying overhead to caw down at them. The colors are amazing - colors he's seen, but never through her eyes. Not the muddy, jaded vision she has now; these are fresh and new, like a toy untouched, a gather gown unworn, a glow that seems to negate from her.
"I nay remember," she claims the next morning, when he asks her if she had good dreams. She hides the lie well in that portion of her mind he doesn't venture in. He's never much been fond of cobwebs and crawlers, and sometimes he's positive that's what he'll find if he pokes into that part.
But sometimes those same dreams pique while she's awake, joining in her normal thoughts of normal business, and she tries to smother them with frustration, anger. If that doesn't work (and it rarely does - her anger is a flame, and she's long since run out of ways to keep it really roaring) she buries it with numb.
Even then, the images pique when she's not paying attention, less vivid but no less bright, and it's then that he can really see all those times she's lied to him, while she hurts those people she can to get more logs to keep her fury going.
The next night she is so numb she can hardly move, and he must help her with his own eyes just so she makes it safely out of her weyr and into his. She staggers to him, and he obligingly opens his paw so she and her blanket can curl up against him, with only him being careful the thin fabric doesn't catch on his claws.
<< Why do you not let them help you? >> he finally asks, hoping for honesty in her drunkeness. << They could, you know. And you would not mind if you'd just let them. >>
Her response is acidic, fleetingly so, and in his mind still ever-so-slightly slurred. << I nay need them. >>
He sighs, but she is already asleep, and already the happiness is flickering into view with that clarity she lacks while awake. So he watches, and waits. And notes, with dismay, that he never makes cameos.
A quick vignette from Sulizath's POV.
She is never alone when she sleeps. Her dreams play like movies that emblazon across thier mind bright enough to stir him from sleep and keep him awake, vivid enough to keep him entranced for the hours when she's not conscious.
He always notes the same things: she's always much smaller, and there's always water and wind and seabirds flying overhead to caw down at them. The colors are amazing - colors he's seen, but never through her eyes. Not the muddy, jaded vision she has now; these are fresh and new, like a toy untouched, a gather gown unworn, a glow that seems to negate from her.
"I nay remember," she claims the next morning, when he asks her if she had good dreams. She hides the lie well in that portion of her mind he doesn't venture in. He's never much been fond of cobwebs and crawlers, and sometimes he's positive that's what he'll find if he pokes into that part.
But sometimes those same dreams pique while she's awake, joining in her normal thoughts of normal business, and she tries to smother them with frustration, anger. If that doesn't work (and it rarely does - her anger is a flame, and she's long since run out of ways to keep it really roaring) she buries it with numb.
Even then, the images pique when she's not paying attention, less vivid but no less bright, and it's then that he can really see all those times she's lied to him, while she hurts those people she can to get more logs to keep her fury going.
The next night she is so numb she can hardly move, and he must help her with his own eyes just so she makes it safely out of her weyr and into his. She staggers to him, and he obligingly opens his paw so she and her blanket can curl up against him, with only him being careful the thin fabric doesn't catch on his claws.
<< Why do you not let them help you? >> he finally asks, hoping for honesty in her drunkeness. << They could, you know. And you would not mind if you'd just let them. >>
Her response is acidic, fleetingly so, and in his mind still ever-so-slightly slurred. << I nay need them. >>
He sighs, but she is already asleep, and already the happiness is flickering into view with that clarity she lacks while awake. So he watches, and waits. And notes, with dismay, that he never makes cameos.