( the orchid around them is a distortion of something picture perfect; reality once again rewritten in the waking world only to bleed over into her dreams, overlapping like aged pages, split ink.
it drips paint-like around the edges, a brief haze of static before it rights itself again.
the apple is plucked by long fingers pale as moonglow, beheld like something that shows him answers to questions unasked and she wonders how much he sees. look closer, he says and she wants to.
just as he allows her to see it, this whisper of one of but many names, it is voiced and he is known — ) Dream, ( it feels endless, ad infinitum, across her tongue, in her mind. it is beautiful, this world that she glimpses, stained glass under stardust night and in it she sees the promise of many things, forever out of reach. it makes her chaos rear its head, hungry and twisting under the lure of dark texts and grief, of prophecy and powers that have come into their own.
she looks away, has to take a breath and close her eyes, heart suddenly hammering hummingbird quick under the revealing nature of his silence. when he finally turns to her, the weight of it is felt across her skin.
brows furrow, and she tilts her head. tension flows into defensiveness, and her magic rolls beneath the surface, a burning in her chest thats tamped down, for now. she is not unreasonable.
but he speaks of nightmares, this endless being that nests just beyond her comprehension. she does not wither, even if something inherent in her knows that this is less her realm than it is his, even if her will has shaped it into a fallacy of preservation. he does not seem angry, even if her own threatens to spill. ) Your nightmare. ( she repeats, curious. ) Which one? ( you'll have to forgive her if she sounds particularly sardonic, a dry-humored twist to her mouth.
just the other night, she'd dreamt, of universes and possibilities just out of reach, of losses that left hairline fractures (under this perfect orchard, if he looks close enough, he would surely see them, something not quite whole, fissures in fine crimson) and well...if she had left the nightmare drained, diamine red through its sinews, that was hardly a fault of hers. ) Your nightmare was in my mind. Whatever happened was just in reaction. ( a beat. she thinks of westview, reality re-written in all its physical shape. of all the magics beyond. of all she's seen, and done. of this ancient thing sitting within the cabin. she shrugs, though the dismissiveness is a brittle mask, ) A lot is possible.
♡ !!
it drips paint-like around the edges, a brief haze of static before it rights itself again.
the apple is plucked by long fingers pale as moonglow, beheld like something that shows him answers to questions unasked and she wonders how much he sees. look closer, he says and she wants to.
just as he allows her to see it, this whisper of one of but many names, it is voiced and he is known — ) Dream, ( it feels endless, ad infinitum, across her tongue, in her mind. it is beautiful, this world that she glimpses, stained glass under stardust night and in it she sees the promise of many things, forever out of reach. it makes her chaos rear its head, hungry and twisting under the lure of dark texts and grief, of prophecy and powers that have come into their own.
she looks away, has to take a breath and close her eyes, heart suddenly hammering hummingbird quick under the revealing nature of his silence. when he finally turns to her, the weight of it is felt across her skin.
brows furrow, and she tilts her head. tension flows into defensiveness, and her magic rolls beneath the surface, a burning in her chest thats tamped down, for now. she is not unreasonable.
but he speaks of nightmares, this endless being that nests just beyond her comprehension. she does not wither, even if something inherent in her knows that this is less her realm than it is his, even if her will has shaped it into a fallacy of preservation. he does not seem angry, even if her own threatens to spill. ) Your nightmare. ( she repeats, curious. ) Which one? ( you'll have to forgive her if she sounds particularly sardonic, a dry-humored twist to her mouth.
just the other night, she'd dreamt, of universes and possibilities just out of reach, of losses that left hairline fractures (under this perfect orchard, if he looks close enough, he would surely see them, something not quite whole, fissures in fine crimson) and well...if she had left the nightmare drained, diamine red through its sinews, that was hardly a fault of hers. ) Your nightmare was in my mind. Whatever happened was just in reaction. ( a beat. she thinks of westview, reality re-written in all its physical shape. of all the magics beyond. of all she's seen, and done. of this ancient thing sitting within the cabin. she shrugs, though the dismissiveness is a brittle mask, ) A lot is possible.