scritch

scratch

sand slides. it scuppers through her fingers, like an hourglass, falling one way and sieving through the other. grains slip, delve, and trace her sinewy skin and marks her bare limbs with nothing but tiny stones, too insignificant to make an impact on her.

and so she sighs, unfurling cloying smog, and what can only be called crocodile tears slope down unblemished cheeks. it can only be called crocodile tears, because it can be nothing else. for she does not cry. she cannot cry. crying is for… humans. and she is not human. even when she wants to be.

in

out

in

out.

slower, slower, shallower, shallower.

she can barely hear it now.

i n

o u t

crimson liquid dries on her other palm, which rests so lightly on (his) satin silk clothes (once so pristine and perfect and prim) and it's sticky to touch. she does dare not mention the silver blade, she does not notice. no, not any more. it is blind in her eyes, and what lies before her is him and his stained silk clothes. they are on their bed. they are alone. they are (un)happy.

lips mouth words that she cannot recognize. she will never recognize them.

his dark eyes look upon her still, heavy and hazy and adoring, and she is sure that her own parallels his. they must. they are a pair. til eternity, isn't that what the wedding vow meant?

like a minnow passing through (she does not know what that is), scuttling past the net (nor that), the elf (for that is she), sorrowing in ebony, in ivory, in amethyst, in gold, and every colour that is made vivid via the sun's laughter and the moon's anger, and the cloud's tears that are not born from crocodiles… she senses his life force escape her completely.

his dark eyes (wild, coal-black, loving) close eternally, this time.

a candle flickers; the flame does not light the ambience in the room any more, the fire does not warm her heart. like the rest of the room, without the use of it's candle, empty, she is empty. so be it, because he is gone.

yet, with choked breath, the slender elf whispers, teeth biting, head cradling, hands clutching, nails clinging, lips touching, wake up.

please wake up

but of course, he does not.

xx

The answer comes to her, this mourning elf, sitting on her throne, with her ornate crowd and austere carpets, crown worn as bracelets, in the form of a fallen star. Better known as a boy who almost mirrors her own tragedy, given as a gift for the atrocity of his curse. He is human, utterly, utterly human and too pretty and too pale because of it. She knows of his calamity through scouring his soul, he does not refuse her; she suspects he does not know how. To think, that his goal matches hers. Perhaps they were made for each other, a human and an elf, sharing this one thing. If not, then when he grows up, he shall be a fine tool, too enamoured in beauty and all of it's illusion.

Her fingers tangle themselves in his hair, golden like honeydew; he does not resist, he complies; he watches, he waits. He does not understand, and the elf queen deems it fine to let him continue ignorant.

His eyes are much too sad and much too young, and she wonders if she erased his mind, she might spare him from this heartbreak.

She does not ask his name, he does not give it, and she is glad.

For names have power, true names, at least.

And if she suggests this one thing, and he decides to refuse, the most he can do is bleed.

But he will not, she thinks, black tendrils resting on his yellow mop of hair, arms encasing his skinny neck, because like before, he cannot refuse. Least of all, her.

He does not know how.

(and his heart beats, beats, beats, like the drumming spider that slithers like a snake; echoing, echoing, echoing like the elf she once loved)

xx

Disclaimer: TRC is not mine.