Feb 14, 2019 23:03:09 GMT -6
Post by Esialeth Rose on Feb 14, 2019 23:03:09 GMT -6
She wakes at midnight.
It’s been forty hours since she’s finished her research paper, thirty-eight since she went to bed, ten minutes since she left it. She’s no longer tired, but agitated—she slips on her battle gear in an almost frenzied manner, the enchanted cloth falling into place easily, its abnormal heaviness a familiar weight. Her back is exposed and a little cold—for now.
“Sorry, Lissy,” she whispers to her roommate—heavy sleeper or not, Esialeth fears that she’s made quite a bit of noise getting dressed.
One, two, and she’s over the threshold, closing the door with the faintest click; three, four—and she’s sprinting down the empty staircase, just barely resisting the urge to whoop in delight.
She sprints all the way to the empty training grounds, her entire aura glowing, burning with unshed energy.
It’s exhilarating.
The night sky glitters, as if in harmony with her mind, and golden flowers bloom everywhere she steps. The bitter winter cannot so much as touch her, for she is—at least in this moment—perfectly content.
She approaches the training grounds, disturbing the untouched snow with both flower and footfall—and looks around. There, she thinks, spotting the nigh unused weapon rack. Kids like to forge their own and make it part of their souls, but Esialeth, who has lived her entire life on borrowed things—swords, makeup, time—isn’t picky.
She tests the grip—fine. Passable. She’s fought with worse. She tosses the sword from hand to hand, casual, as if she’s wielded this particular school-issued weapon her entire life. Swings it around her shoulder, cocky. Because there’s no one else around.
And then, unbidden, she senses a presence behind her.
It’s him—as a ghost, or something—it doesn’t matter. One foot forward, one breath in; when she exhales, it’s heavy, rushed, for she’s pulled him against her, the flare of her aether giving him form.
“God—” she breathes, holding his shoulders so she can see him properly (the view isn’t even that great, because his form is hazy and flickering)—”How did you get here?”
He smiles, blinding and open. “I found you.”
And that’s impossibly sweet, but her mind is still whirring at a thousand miles an hour from that research paper—oh. The research paper.
Ghosts, specifically those of fallen angels, become visible through surges of aether; aether, not magic, because otherwise ghosts would be popping up everywhere. Anyway. The last time she’s felt her aether surge was...when she finished that publication on lyrium. Which meant……
“So, you showed up here because I got really excited about my paper about magic cocaine?"
Disgruntled, he sits down on a rickety wooden stool near the sword rack. “If you must describe it like that, maybe I should just g—”
“No!” she steps towards him, smoothing out his hair and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Let’s do something fun.”
“What do you have in mind?” he asks, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Hmm...you look tired...we could go into town or something…”
“Is that what I look like? Tired?”
“Um...yes?”
“For someone so smart, you really are…nevermind.” He shakes her head at her. “You’re gushing enough aether to melt the city. You came here to fight, didn’t you? Then let’s fight!”
He grabs a sword from the rack and rushes out the door before she can respond.
_______________________________________
He’s waiting for her in the moonlit practice ring, the light tinting his black hair silver. His head is tilted downwards, but not yet shrouded in shadow—the snow throws light into places where there would be darkness— and his eyes flick up to meet hers.
Pink to gold, gold to pink.
It would be insanely hot, had she not chosen this moment to remember that this person once blew a raspberry into her stomach.
But if he wants to play this game, who was she to deny him?
She lets her blade drag across the ground, steel on stone, and the sound it produces is—not unpleasant, exactly, but it’s...anticipatory. Expectant.
She picks it up. The only sound now is the winter wind. Raises a gunmetal-grey eyebrow at him, taunting. Daring him to attack first.
It’s not bait if he’s an eons-old warrior. Right?
He’s on her in seconds, impossibly fast, unhindered by the snow or the cold; she’s forced to go on the defensive, deflecting blows from her shoulder, her hip—and he makes a small gash in her pant leg. Narrowing her eyes, she lets her aether burn, the snow around them turns to steam.
They break apart. Neither of them can really be harmed by mortal weaponry, so they rely on clothing—visual cues. Which is why her arms and back were bare.
Less is more, she thinks, smiling innocently at her partner.
They pace sidelong around the circle of summer heat she’s created around them, never letting the other see their back, footsteps echoing now that they’re treading on stone.
And then—he runs. Jumps. Flies. Whatever.
He’s at an advantage here, too, for his wings are smaller, more maneuverable. She can’t—she can’t just transform her bulky wings into something less maneuverable—but her wings have their own advantage. She’s stronger, heavier, so after she lands a hit—a slash on his sleeve—she uses his surprise to throw him out of the air. He avoids getting his wings crushed just in time, but he lands on his back, weaponless.
She walks to him slowly, tosses her sword to the ground. It clangs uselessly against the stone, the sound earthquake-loud in the still night, but neither of them spare it a glance. He’s still on the ground, propped up on his elbows, and she kneels to his level, resting her hand on the ground near his hip.
Gold to pink, pink to gold.
I love you, they whisper. Overlapping, reverent, impossibly sad.
The cold’s starting to seep in again. She can feel it prickling at her shirt, seeping into her bones.
Their eyes close, their lips meet; softly, sweetly.
And she feels her aether failing. Feels him disappearing into the night.
When she opens them, the sky is the special kind of dark, the kind right before dawn, the kind that can swallow a person whole.
The snow starts to fall again, and she leaves the training grounds shivering, her hair dusted with fat snowflakes.
She’s inside before dawn.
It’s been forty hours since she’s finished her research paper, thirty-eight since she went to bed, ten minutes since she left it. She’s no longer tired, but agitated—she slips on her battle gear in an almost frenzied manner, the enchanted cloth falling into place easily, its abnormal heaviness a familiar weight. Her back is exposed and a little cold—for now.
“Sorry, Lissy,” she whispers to her roommate—heavy sleeper or not, Esialeth fears that she’s made quite a bit of noise getting dressed.
One, two, and she’s over the threshold, closing the door with the faintest click; three, four—and she’s sprinting down the empty staircase, just barely resisting the urge to whoop in delight.
She sprints all the way to the empty training grounds, her entire aura glowing, burning with unshed energy.
It’s exhilarating.
The night sky glitters, as if in harmony with her mind, and golden flowers bloom everywhere she steps. The bitter winter cannot so much as touch her, for she is—at least in this moment—perfectly content.
She approaches the training grounds, disturbing the untouched snow with both flower and footfall—and looks around. There, she thinks, spotting the nigh unused weapon rack. Kids like to forge their own and make it part of their souls, but Esialeth, who has lived her entire life on borrowed things—swords, makeup, time—isn’t picky.
She tests the grip—fine. Passable. She’s fought with worse. She tosses the sword from hand to hand, casual, as if she’s wielded this particular school-issued weapon her entire life. Swings it around her shoulder, cocky. Because there’s no one else around.
And then, unbidden, she senses a presence behind her.
It’s him—as a ghost, or something—it doesn’t matter. One foot forward, one breath in; when she exhales, it’s heavy, rushed, for she’s pulled him against her, the flare of her aether giving him form.
“God—” she breathes, holding his shoulders so she can see him properly (the view isn’t even that great, because his form is hazy and flickering)—”How did you get here?”
He smiles, blinding and open. “I found you.”
And that’s impossibly sweet, but her mind is still whirring at a thousand miles an hour from that research paper—oh. The research paper.
Ghosts, specifically those of fallen angels, become visible through surges of aether; aether, not magic, because otherwise ghosts would be popping up everywhere. Anyway. The last time she’s felt her aether surge was...when she finished that publication on lyrium. Which meant……
“So, you showed up here because I got really excited about my paper about magic cocaine?"
Disgruntled, he sits down on a rickety wooden stool near the sword rack. “If you must describe it like that, maybe I should just g—”
“No!” she steps towards him, smoothing out his hair and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Let’s do something fun.”
“What do you have in mind?” he asks, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Hmm...you look tired...we could go into town or something…”
“Is that what I look like? Tired?”
“Um...yes?”
“For someone so smart, you really are…nevermind.” He shakes her head at her. “You’re gushing enough aether to melt the city. You came here to fight, didn’t you? Then let’s fight!”
He grabs a sword from the rack and rushes out the door before she can respond.
_______________________________________
He’s waiting for her in the moonlit practice ring, the light tinting his black hair silver. His head is tilted downwards, but not yet shrouded in shadow—the snow throws light into places where there would be darkness— and his eyes flick up to meet hers.
Pink to gold, gold to pink.
It would be insanely hot, had she not chosen this moment to remember that this person once blew a raspberry into her stomach.
But if he wants to play this game, who was she to deny him?
She lets her blade drag across the ground, steel on stone, and the sound it produces is—not unpleasant, exactly, but it’s...anticipatory. Expectant.
She picks it up. The only sound now is the winter wind. Raises a gunmetal-grey eyebrow at him, taunting. Daring him to attack first.
It’s not bait if he’s an eons-old warrior. Right?
He’s on her in seconds, impossibly fast, unhindered by the snow or the cold; she’s forced to go on the defensive, deflecting blows from her shoulder, her hip—and he makes a small gash in her pant leg. Narrowing her eyes, she lets her aether burn, the snow around them turns to steam.
They break apart. Neither of them can really be harmed by mortal weaponry, so they rely on clothing—visual cues. Which is why her arms and back were bare.
Less is more, she thinks, smiling innocently at her partner.
They pace sidelong around the circle of summer heat she’s created around them, never letting the other see their back, footsteps echoing now that they’re treading on stone.
And then—he runs. Jumps. Flies. Whatever.
He’s at an advantage here, too, for his wings are smaller, more maneuverable. She can’t—she can’t just transform her bulky wings into something less maneuverable—but her wings have their own advantage. She’s stronger, heavier, so after she lands a hit—a slash on his sleeve—she uses his surprise to throw him out of the air. He avoids getting his wings crushed just in time, but he lands on his back, weaponless.
She walks to him slowly, tosses her sword to the ground. It clangs uselessly against the stone, the sound earthquake-loud in the still night, but neither of them spare it a glance. He’s still on the ground, propped up on his elbows, and she kneels to his level, resting her hand on the ground near his hip.
Gold to pink, pink to gold.
I love you, they whisper. Overlapping, reverent, impossibly sad.
The cold’s starting to seep in again. She can feel it prickling at her shirt, seeping into her bones.
Their eyes close, their lips meet; softly, sweetly.
And she feels her aether failing. Feels him disappearing into the night.
When she opens them, the sky is the special kind of dark, the kind right before dawn, the kind that can swallow a person whole.
The snow starts to fall again, and she leaves the training grounds shivering, her hair dusted with fat snowflakes.
She’s inside before dawn.
