The escaping back of a boy, only slightly cracked and already spilling out abrupt compliments. Thin limbs clumsily navigating bodies bodies bodies long wilted to the floor. A lowered hand and the appearance of a pen, now much more stolen than borrowed. You laugh and it’s just another little mischief under the shifting lights of the party. One of many.
The sleeping girl-turned-chair-turned-girl once more shifts and mumbles and you comfort her with soft lies about duPont. It’s a relief isn’t it? To tell a few little lies in the wake of a truth about yourself.
Reflection. But what do you reflect now? Certainly not your own ends or even your own vision, the former overwhelmed by the shining and transformative power of that which is your master. The latter…a body grown too tall, a figure grown too muscular, a face gaining a definition involving far too many distinct angles. The price of both growing older and gaining power has been carved into you with an insistence beyond your control. And
that was the true loss.
The control of it.
But still, you’re beautiful.
Too pretty for this world.So the world remains, by some measure, worth saving.
The wraith returns and another takes its place as the music gets louder and bodies grow heavier.
You watch clouds gather on the horizon and think about the destruction of worlds and the queer immortality to be found within the Mirror, so counter to the perceived
purity of rebirth. The nature of the Mirror’s investment and the Cauldron’s will to try again and
again. Didn’t it feel tedious? Didn’t it feel like a prison? An unending loss of
control. The tumble of clouds gently frames the hinting flashes of oncoming lightning. Violent streaks of power silently begin to course toward the city, a pack of predators racing across the sky. Your voice is soft and playful as you wake the girl with the good news. Her sleepy gaze at the sky gains new apprehension while her body visibly shivers. Those eyes are large and dark and she probably makes people love her at least a little when she cries, but they're not
quite as enticing as the boy’s had been. Still, you whisper in her ear, teasing at both her excitement and fears, warm breath hitting her skin while the shivers increase.
The storm grows closer and now your lips brush along the edge of her ear and she’s torn between you and the sky, between the desires for tomorrow and the distracted want for
right now. Your fingers are in her hair, toying with a bit of that sculptural wire and reminding her it’s there. You laugh into her neck as she stutters something about taking this inside. That it's not the right night to be chosen,
duPont's not even here. The hand in her hair gently tilts the girl’s head and you match and meet her mouth with comfortable ease.
The pen’s still in your hand as it winds and pulls at her waist, leaving marks across the small of her back even as light and power
and pain crashes down on your entwined bodies, filling your vision with a bright void and your mouth with the metallic taste of blood. Hers. Your own.
Your laughter fills the silence of shock, and you’re sure she’s going to start crying soon. And maybe you’ll join her. Maybe you'll even love her a little in the moment. But now there’s a joy to be found, in making a choice and being chosen in turn.
Reply
