||EVENT||
Wednesday afternoon, a chill rolls in over the Rowan lake, though it's difficult to tell anywhere but on the surface. The waters grow dark and choppy, and even the sun hides behind the dingy grey clouds that have swept in to dampen Jhelbor.
Elimyr watches, below the waves, hidden in the dark and muck. The water moves through her hair and over her skin and in and out of her lungs, swish and bubble and ebb and flow all over her body, and her unblinking eyes stare at the bubble, lit softly with Sorcerer's stones. That woman tried to hurt her, tried to make her weak, cut and stab and slice and tear and burn, and they don't even care. They're welcoming her, talking to her, helping her. Whispering words around and around and all so sweet and kind and caring. It's not right. That's not how a friend behaves. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
Around the slim figure, the currents twist and writhe. They don't love Elimyr. They've forgotten her. No one wonders when she'll come again, or how she is. Even Ianto isn't happy to see her any more, she can tell. His eyes don't light up, his smile doesn't stretch as far, exposing the teeth in his skull like bleached beachwood and abandoned dead shells. He loves them more than he loves her. They aren't being good friends. None of them. They've failed, and now they're going to have to hurt as much as she does.
Elimyr skims along the bottom of the lake, even deeper than the bubble, carving it out as she goes. She wants to sink down down down, like water running through cracks, trying to get deep where it's dark and safe. Down down down until she's just two bright little specks of unblinking eye. Down where it's cold and dark and safe, and she reaches out, for the perfect sphere keeping them alive, wrapping the fingers of her mind around it. She should let it pop. Flood and rush and scream and die, and then they'd be sorry. But if she does that, she loses, too. Elimyr doesn't want to hurt, these strange feelings that are moving through her and tearing out chunks as they go. She doesn't like them, but she doesn't know how to get rid of them. Elimyr used to like pain. It made her strong. Maybe that's what she needs now.
In the deep, in the dark, she watches, her mind moving over the surface of the bubble. And then she squeezes, and the shape moves, bends, bulges out at the top and the bottom, and it starts to shrink, closing in, letting them know they aren't forgotten. She wouldn't forget them. Not ever. because she is a good friend.
Elimyr watches, below the waves, hidden in the dark and muck. The water moves through her hair and over her skin and in and out of her lungs, swish and bubble and ebb and flow all over her body, and her unblinking eyes stare at the bubble, lit softly with Sorcerer's stones. That woman tried to hurt her, tried to make her weak, cut and stab and slice and tear and burn, and they don't even care. They're welcoming her, talking to her, helping her. Whispering words around and around and all so sweet and kind and caring. It's not right. That's not how a friend behaves. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
Around the slim figure, the currents twist and writhe. They don't love Elimyr. They've forgotten her. No one wonders when she'll come again, or how she is. Even Ianto isn't happy to see her any more, she can tell. His eyes don't light up, his smile doesn't stretch as far, exposing the teeth in his skull like bleached beachwood and abandoned dead shells. He loves them more than he loves her. They aren't being good friends. None of them. They've failed, and now they're going to have to hurt as much as she does.
Elimyr skims along the bottom of the lake, even deeper than the bubble, carving it out as she goes. She wants to sink down down down, like water running through cracks, trying to get deep where it's dark and safe. Down down down until she's just two bright little specks of unblinking eye. Down where it's cold and dark and safe, and she reaches out, for the perfect sphere keeping them alive, wrapping the fingers of her mind around it. She should let it pop. Flood and rush and scream and die, and then they'd be sorry. But if she does that, she loses, too. Elimyr doesn't want to hurt, these strange feelings that are moving through her and tearing out chunks as they go. She doesn't like them, but she doesn't know how to get rid of them. Elimyr used to like pain. It made her strong. Maybe that's what she needs now.
In the deep, in the dark, she watches, her mind moving over the surface of the bubble. And then she squeezes, and the shape moves, bends, bulges out at the top and the bottom, and it starts to shrink, closing in, letting them know they aren't forgotten. She wouldn't forget them. Not ever. because she is a good friend.