(no subject)
It is difficult to remember anything in this place.
One of the things that Antigone does not remember is time. Its relevance has been stripped away, so slowly and gradually that she does not recall any sense of discomfort or vertigo; all she feels, or felt, or will feel, is the occasional pinprick of-- something passing. Somewhere.
She does-- of course-- remember Ismene, and her family, and Milliways, but without the urgency she might have felt while she was alive or in the bar. For the most part, Antigone does not yearn. It's beautiful here, in its own way, with the gray twilight and the fields of white flowers. She wanders, and is largely content, and time is a language she's forgotten how to speak.
But sometimes her fingertips brush the red wool of her coat, which she wears always without much regard for temperature, and the flower Lethe gave her is cool, glassy assurance in her pocket.
In those moments, she wonders what it might be like to go back.
One of the things that Antigone does not remember is time. Its relevance has been stripped away, so slowly and gradually that she does not recall any sense of discomfort or vertigo; all she feels, or felt, or will feel, is the occasional pinprick of-- something passing. Somewhere.
She does-- of course-- remember Ismene, and her family, and Milliways, but without the urgency she might have felt while she was alive or in the bar. For the most part, Antigone does not yearn. It's beautiful here, in its own way, with the gray twilight and the fields of white flowers. She wanders, and is largely content, and time is a language she's forgotten how to speak.
But sometimes her fingertips brush the red wool of her coat, which she wears always without much regard for temperature, and the flower Lethe gave her is cool, glassy assurance in her pocket.
In those moments, she wonders what it might be like to go back.