Thorns. A figure, as quick to come into being as it was to disappear.
Thousand-Eyes vanished; that was life, and that was death.
Genny reaching out, then crumbling like powder, or perhaps like a melting wax figurine, sinking down, down, down...
Pain. But brief. Blinding, deafening, so great that it could hardly register in anything but noise and whiteness. Then there was water, rushing up to devour her.
Her blood suffused the depths of the sea, coiling out in dark, cloudy billows from places where sharp edges had chewed canyons into her. She was the carriage of the Glass Sun, boiling the water around her in a torrent of heat and sulfur and salt, until at last it filled her swollen lungs and the murky blood transformed like any substance must
when at the will and pressure of a force far its greater: its color and weight became sound and fury, the spilling stuff of veins morphing into the spillnig stuff of mind, an uninterrupted deluge of the storm constantly raging underneath that bristling bounty of hair, that brown scalp, that thick, thick skull, pouring out into the dream—elliot brown
could raw his mar'dak's nipple red underneath the constant
gumming of that arrogant jaw but you cannot silence him cannot
bring sense to him cannot tame him with a bit between the teeth
could move a mountain and a kingdom with her mind and you
weave whole gowns from that red hair wrap yourself inside of
it and hope she doesn't mind glour'eya (j'uk'ad, j'uk'ad)
soodsyso you fear him because you could not fix him could not save
will grow old and she will be far better left to the
happiness of a lie (you've but one parent, a knight
him could not be anything more than spit and promises and stupid
foreign girl (never myrkenite no myrkener myrkener myrkener)
and you find yourself tumbling into old burnt libraries to find
silent words buried like brilliant jewels on her lips and the
stutter left behind finds a rhythm like a song in the hearbeat
of your mind there you are dancing dancing dancing
named catch, who kissed the moonlight and breathedyou just tire him with all your screaming and your stubborness
out a vapor and so you came to be like a moonbeam
dream cast alive through the fog)
and stupid smashing rock glour'eya (j'uk'ol, j'uk'ol) he has
all he needs and all he wants with ink etched into the skin and
thorns on the edges of those fingertips—
to its charm before you drift off to sleep and how cruel you
are you stupid sand-scarred girl that for all the sharp-edge
beauty of her mind you just stare at that curve of her
collarbone burnt into your vision and wonder if she looks back—
than a very ugly truth too afraid
in the eye—
—swimming, drowning among the violence of clumsy metaphors blowing profusely out from underneath her skin. And thorn-riddled, her dark face wearing the bulging, airless terror of a corpse cast off from a ship, she tried to swim, but failed, for she could not; she tried to sluggishly batter her useless hand against the frozen top of the sea, but her arm swung like lifeless ribbon and possessed no strength. Drowning in the water, falling apart, peeling off from the bones, strangling in the remnants of her own dress, it was all she could do to keep from going limp and dead in the blackness.
Driven by fading effort, that spasming hand lashed out, tried to snare the edge of Genny's gossamer hem floating mist-like in the suffocating sea.Don't go. Don't flee. I'm here, I'm here...
Elliot Brown was a lost cause. Genny Tolleson could not be. We're not so different...I, too, am fighting with every—