Globs of fire ooze from my fingertips, disappearing into an ocean of chaos.
Beautiful, isn’t it. What you can do. How jealous I am of you, with your fiery hair and your priceless, empty soul.
Coursing through my veins, ice and hatred and a tremendous, terrible will.
What am I saying? … Thinking. If I am speaking, I cannot hear my own voice. How long have I been here?
You won’t feel any of that soon enough. Time, as you can tell, is already gone. It will be easier. And I’ll be more jealous. But - while I still have you here… do you miss them?
The ocean pulses before my eyes, chaos forming into watercolour. Is this my doing? Or hers? Limbs and heads and trunks, tinted by smiles and gentle whispers. Dark-hair-fur-amber-hat-horns-rubies-shoes-blue-ears-daggers-sweater
Ooh! Wait wait wait - you do like him, don’t- no. You don’t know? You didn’t. Goodness, how do you not know what that- ah. Let me help you.
The faces swirl. Goatee mocking under too-bright smile. Hair curling over temples. I hear an affable chuckle under the tick of a clock, and smell moonshine over newsprint. At least I still have ears and a nose.
It’s in your head, moronic girl. Anyhow. This, our precious innocent one OH HOW I ENVY YOU, is a crush. Your very first. No one ever told you to leave married men alone, did they.
Is she wincing? Is this her face, or her mind, or her heart? Does this hurt?
That is what a crush feels like, dearest child. Well. Unrequited. Technically. So complicated! Oh, oh! What I would. Not. Give. To play with you all. Alas. Not to be. Not this time, anyhow.
I know that my will is humbled, dwarfed beneath this force that crawls across my consciousness as countless tiny suns. There are no choices, where it is concerned. But what little is left of me perhaps can do this small thing -
The Pandaren Master turned the letter over in his hands, frowning.
“I … do not like it. But there isn’t much we can do, beyond sending to the front and hoping Lieutenant Rothbart is able to reply.”
“Should we also send to the University?”
He considers over a sip of plum wine. “No - I think not. They would not have had a letter from the parents, and to contact them this quickly may arouse suspicion if, and I wouldn’t doubt she does, the mother has agents watching. If Odine is gone for longer than her father suggests, we might write them … but for now, it’s best to keep both the girl and the institution safe.”
It does not remember skin.
Skin is for beings. Corporeal beings, with minds and hearts of their own. It is not such a thing. It is a thing.
It does not remember breath, or sight, or taste. It does not know hillsides or laughter.
Only a thing. Filled to bursting, stretched with its digits pointing to each corner of the remaining world.
Until it is not.
“The first portal stone is set. Anona.”
There is nothing and too much at the same time. She feels as though she has become nothing - everything has been taken from her. She is empty. Her purpose is lost. But she feels as though she is finally, finally, herself again. Present. Real. Aware of the hideous pain in her shoulders accompanied by the scrape of metal, that is second only to the fire suddenly circling her wrists, which makes the dull thud in her knees really nothing at all. Aware of her swimming vision. She smells damp and dirt. She hears footsteps. No - not footsteps.
“Poor dear. I imagine you’re not ready to use those arms or those legs at the moment, mmm? Not on your own.”
There is a cool, lingering touch upon her brow, like a kiss.
It was a kiss, precious. You’ve done very well. The master shant need you again for a good long while - time for you to rest. Let’s take you home, Sugar.
The house is empty. A thin layer of dust covers her window sill, but she ignores it as unimportant. Tilting her head, she rubs absently at the still-raw ring around her left wrist and contemplates her latest work. Then she stands, making her way to the warm brown of her bed spread, upon which new clothes are laid out. Much better than those stuffy grey-black dregs the Monks gave her. Made her look like an assassin-wannabe. She’s not an assassin.
But something is off in slipping the leather tunic over her head and shrugging into the pants. They don’t … quite fit? Well. Of course they don’t. They’re not really hers. No matter - she needs armwraps, and gloves. Bound to be something in these drawers - or something belonging to her mother? Yes. She knows just the right pair of fingerless gloves.
Perhaps that will keep her from scratching off any more skin. The skin of the hand really is some of the most fragile. Best protect them before she returns to the city.