Comments | fiery_inception: Frozen fingers, toppled skies

diva_myron in fiery_inception

Frozen fingers, toppled skies

Mar 31, 2007 18:54

Date: 31 March 2007
Time: Closer to evening
Location: Deirdre's flat
Characters Involved: Myron Wagtail and Deirdre Burke
Rating: PG-13 or thereabouts

( Ich bin auf der Welt zu allein und doch nicht allein genug )

status: complete, status: invitation only, character: deirdre burke, character: myron wagtail

Comments 9

deirdre_ivy April 7 2007, 07:30:51 UTC

After the wrapping paper nothingness of the ball, and the terrible revelation that had stolen her from her confusion, the world had been over. There was a moment in which she had thought she might escape, that moment when her ears had first been boxed with the news and there was still a pinprick of light in a vast field of black [as though a television set had just been turned off]. But, when her eyes had been pieced with what he had done to himself [and that small voice whispered because of you, because you forgot, because you did not care enough, because you thought you could help and destroyed instead, because you were born; it was an endless record on repeat], there was nothing. She had lain, draped in green slitherings, for days, ironically beautiful [for wasn’t she the ugliest creature, to cause such harm?]. If only the bed had swallowed her up. There had been no eating or drinking, as she attempted to disappear into the threads and called on her Un-maker.

Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it ( ... )

deirdre_ivy April 7 2007, 08:01:10 UTC

When she gotten out of her gown and tried to bathe, finally, disgusted with herself both for moving and for not moving earlier, it had seemed better not to scrub too hard at her own skin, for fear that truly eradicating the filth might leave nothing left of her. It had seemed better not emerge from beneath the meniscus.

Still, even as she pondered, she wept and wept and could not speak. What other untold horrors had she wrought on an otherwise good world? How could she expect to help ever again if even those most in need escaped her notice--or worse, descended because of it? Did not her distress now reveal a nature so self-serving that it could not even properly grieve for a life it had let slip away? She did not even wear black.

Though this was not true, she thought it so. Her nakedness, in her eyes, was Sin and thoughtless to the Dead. But her colored [shreds of] clothing, which she had never thought of changing for the mourning...suggested to the eye a deeper grief than the conventional garb of bereavement could express. ( ... )

deirdre_ivy April 7 2007, 08:38:54 UTC

Once, in the harsh clicking glass gears that broke the rhythm of things between the night and the day, she remembered Geoff coming to see her. He’d knocked and knocked, she thought she recalled, until his drumming at the door was just a dull thrumming beneath her vacant pulse. After he left, she made it downstairs, clutching her white robe around her shoulders ( ... )

diva_myron April 7 2007, 15:22:58 UTC

Breezes, black paints, newspaper commercials dimming in the background of his mind-- and useless soliloquys, must not forget! - all was gone, withering away into the far away horizon, leaving him breathless, powerless, almost beaten. As he looked upon her. Like a dying swan, black and silver, sanguine streaks through and through, she was sinking into the beneath of sticky liquid... [WAKE UP!] His throat was agonizing, burning, destroyed forever by an army of cruel arabs on their winged horses, and he could no longer speak, no longer sing, no longer breathe. Only his fingers around hers clutched ever stronger, trembling ( ... )

diva_myron April 7 2007, 15:39:57 UTC

"Hush, little child," he said quietly, smiling at her, as he lifted her chin with a finger. "I will tell you a tale now, of eastern wind and butterflies. And a tree-faerie, who hovered above, needing no one, reckless and free." Myron genuflected before her, a troubadour forever lost in his lady's arms, before rising up and joining her on the couch, as he continued. "And a man, who was broken and fractured into tiny shards of deceit and oblivion. And mischievous magi, who mixed up all their cards."

Myron grinned, the mentioned mischief lighting up in his own eyes, slowly, gently, irrevocably, as he embraced Deirdre tenderly. (The time for darkness was gone, even in the face of twilight.)

"The man spent all his days amidst crowds of words, scattered around, flying upward and downward and eastward and westward, until one day-- when the wind changed its direction. It was a fine summerly day," he spoke, getting carried away with the narration, as he caressed her hair softly. There were ribbons of red and shimmering stars and silken hair ( ... )

deirdre_ivy April 7 2007, 23:03:56 UTC

(--her eyes widened and then flickered closed, brows fluttering o so fractionally in a miniature, contained, quiet explosion of the unspeakable ___ )

Deirdre let his lips move lightly over hers for a moment, without moving beyond the ashen shell that had become her body. She was so rarely kissed--that is, it was she that normally did the kissing--that every fragment of time that she could exist this way was precious. In Life, her bones had been strong, and she would push them up against the wall and take control when she wished it, and banish them from her life when she wished them gone.

But this! It was such a delicate thing that she was afraid his touch would evaporate into the unspoken wishes of her soul, into nothingness, if she moved. She'd spent so long holding this at arms' length. It had taken all she had, and now, she had nothing. She had left her door open, and he had arrived.

Before: "Vague and quaint imaginings had haunted [her] in the days [past] when her intellect had scintillated like a star, that the world ( ... )

Thread 7