[oom; some things just can't change]
Evening comes, then Night, and as she unfurls her black-purple curtain all around Earth, Heaven settles himself around his wife and sighs.
It's a sad, tired, empty sigh that carries on the wind, drifts through canyons and across plains, and for a moment, all of Earth can feel it...
... but she doesn't care.
She hates him, hates him, hates him, and he can feel it in the way her jagged mountaintops poke threateningly at his chest, and he feels it deep in his heart and it hurts and she knows it and she hasn't hurt him enough -- no, never enough, she can forgive him, but she will never forget -- and the Sky, although it is always in the same spot and always will be, is very, very lost.
"You have changed," she had said to him, once. "I will give you that much."
But nothing ever changed between them. Nothing ever changes. Ouranos doubts it ever will.
He'll be damned if he doesn't at least try to change things, though -- for himself. (Gaia won't ever change, won't ever let anything go; her memories are embedded in the cracks and wrinkles on her delicate surface, they won't go away.)
And change is coming, slowly, steadily, in the form of silver hair and blue eyes and pale skin and Gaia knows and she doesn't care. Part of Ouranos wants her to care, wants her to at least be jealous, angry, something, anything, just a little bit -- but she knows everything and nothing's changed between them.
In time, he suspects he might just be okay with that.
(But the hurt won't ever stop.)
It's a sad, tired, empty sigh that carries on the wind, drifts through canyons and across plains, and for a moment, all of Earth can feel it...
... but she doesn't care.
She hates him, hates him, hates him, and he can feel it in the way her jagged mountaintops poke threateningly at his chest, and he feels it deep in his heart and it hurts and she knows it and she hasn't hurt him enough -- no, never enough, she can forgive him, but she will never forget -- and the Sky, although it is always in the same spot and always will be, is very, very lost.
"You have changed," she had said to him, once. "I will give you that much."
But nothing ever changed between them. Nothing ever changes. Ouranos doubts it ever will.
He'll be damned if he doesn't at least try to change things, though -- for himself. (Gaia won't ever change, won't ever let anything go; her memories are embedded in the cracks and wrinkles on her delicate surface, they won't go away.)
And change is coming, slowly, steadily, in the form of silver hair and blue eyes and pale skin and Gaia knows and she doesn't care. Part of Ouranos wants her to care, wants her to at least be jealous, angry, something, anything, just a little bit -- but she knows everything and nothing's changed between them.
In time, he suspects he might just be okay with that.
(But the hurt won't ever stop.)