(no subject)
First she wrote the letters. Then she burned them.
In each one, Dessa tried to explain. Explain how she felt, explain why she did the things she’s done. Explain about Theo, about why she left those long months ago. Each time she started a letter, she thought to herself, yes. This will be the one I send. This will be my manifesto, my last goodbye. But each time, words failed her. Each time, she faltered. Each letter was, eventually, fed to a dancing, hungry yellow, orange, and red flame. The little fire she made outside her tent reminded her of their hair, hers, Roy’s, and Ori’s. Orange hair, red hair, blonde hair. It all fit.
Theo’s bracelet healed her arm, but sometimes, when the shadows fell just right, and when she ran her fingers down the place she knew the arrow had struck, they cast what to her looked and felt like an indentation, a scar. A reminder, a mark, something that would take her back to that night she saw Roy in the place and he marked and reminded her of who he really was.
That same night Theo had healed her, comforted her, and lovingly, kindly, gently, and far more sweetly than she deserved, rejected a desperate, half-aware proposal of marriage. A wedding wouldn’t have been the biggest mistake ever, but it would have been close. Theo was amazing, but she left his castle once out of boredom. She couldn’t bear to tie herself down. Theo was better for her than she even knew.
The scent of burnt paper clung to her for weeks after she saw Roy. It clung to her hair, her clothes, her skin. It reminded her of him and made her want to crawl out of her body. Instead she just had another beer. One day, people told her, one day that’ll catch up to you and you’ll regret it. These people, these annoying helpfuls, were few and far between at the fair, at least. Something she learned to appreciate tenfold in the chaotic world of carnies and jugglers and magic and artifice was her anonymity.
First she wrote the letters. And night after night, alone, silently, she burned them.
In each one, Dessa tried to explain. Explain how she felt, explain why she did the things she’s done. Explain about Theo, about why she left those long months ago. Each time she started a letter, she thought to herself, yes. This will be the one I send. This will be my manifesto, my last goodbye. But each time, words failed her. Each time, she faltered. Each letter was, eventually, fed to a dancing, hungry yellow, orange, and red flame. The little fire she made outside her tent reminded her of their hair, hers, Roy’s, and Ori’s. Orange hair, red hair, blonde hair. It all fit.
Theo’s bracelet healed her arm, but sometimes, when the shadows fell just right, and when she ran her fingers down the place she knew the arrow had struck, they cast what to her looked and felt like an indentation, a scar. A reminder, a mark, something that would take her back to that night she saw Roy in the place and he marked and reminded her of who he really was.
That same night Theo had healed her, comforted her, and lovingly, kindly, gently, and far more sweetly than she deserved, rejected a desperate, half-aware proposal of marriage. A wedding wouldn’t have been the biggest mistake ever, but it would have been close. Theo was amazing, but she left his castle once out of boredom. She couldn’t bear to tie herself down. Theo was better for her than she even knew.
The scent of burnt paper clung to her for weeks after she saw Roy. It clung to her hair, her clothes, her skin. It reminded her of him and made her want to crawl out of her body. Instead she just had another beer. One day, people told her, one day that’ll catch up to you and you’ll regret it. These people, these annoying helpfuls, were few and far between at the fair, at least. Something she learned to appreciate tenfold in the chaotic world of carnies and jugglers and magic and artifice was her anonymity.
First she wrote the letters. And night after night, alone, silently, she burned them.