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Pity the Thinkers


bloomtiara
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Always pity the thinkers,

for they are cursed

with their own

imagination.

(Atticus)

 

Tainted golden eyes stared into the darkness,

where nothing could be seen.

 

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An endless void danced before her eyes, nothing but her bare hands for defense.

Within that cave, a voice rung out: one so familiar, yet one she most dreaded- one she was afraid to hear again. . .

 

"Are you willing to follow me in here, Astarte?"

For, he may just disappear.

 

Shattering shells rung in her ears, showering over the lass.

Everything fell from beneath her feet, stones grinding against her palms as she sat on her hands and knees within that eerie dark.

"Were you not going to make that peasant-

 

You were going to make her proud?!"

 

Breaths pumped through her chest, that dirty excuse for a mali.

She peered down to those shards of shells within her palm, wheezing, throwing them with a red ichor into that gloom.

"I've not the faintest idea how another family was even able to accept you into their third-rate home."

 

The clatter of the sea-bound objects rung through her mind, piercing, looking down.. Sand began to pile up, pouring out from her ears in a slow, and steady flow.

 

"You throw up at the slightest punch - 

Now, that same material began to drain from her maw, sand pooling out across the cave-floor.

 - Are you that pathetic?"

"How long will you need me to coddle you until you finally start taking care of yourself, you useless thing?"

 

A pain began to surge through the lass' gut, eyes shutting tight as the ringing of the shells begun to fade,

piercing throughout her skull.

 

"Is that all it took? One punch? Get up. Get up!"

"Get up, Astarte! Come on!"

 

And that which replaced the splitting headache, was that instead of comfort- held tight, staring up through cream-colored locks of hair.

 

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"A daughter of my brother is a daughter of mine."

That voice, that voice she craved to hear, for decades. Peaceful, quiet.

 

Oh, how she longed to scream, to cry out- naught more than trapped beneath that old blanket. 

To beg them all to return- all those she wished to see.

 

"I'll close your eyes, one by one.

 

And so instead, she'd cling to that dearest toy, one her maln had left, sewn from rabbit's fur upon that olden continent, swelled with flames.

 

"The sun is leaving, the day is done, the sky is going, going off to sleep, 

oh let your mind follow, let not your eyes

weep."

It crawled about at the edges of her eyes,

That subtle crimson that sought to overtake her,

Clinging to that little lass' dress hem. . .

If only to forget that scene, as the axe cleaved for one of them,

another just barely left for their trip,

and that last one, the worst, as screams and cries for her father were all that remained:

"Go home, Astarte. I'll see you later this evening."

 

I made pasta that night, I believe; though, I did  burn it.

You never tried it.

 

"Now rest so gently, letting time pass by, the dreams that you yearn for, they dance behind your eyes."

 

"Rest well, Astarte."

 

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It was painful for her eyes to open that day,

Scattered needles of pine sprawled across her form,

Wrinkles in her clothes stuck to her with a sweet amber sap.

 

Just like those lousy irises of hers.

The smell of cedar filled her nose, mixed with rotten eggs.

Another average day.

 

"Emilei ought to be getting antsy by now..

I need to finish my task."

 

And so, as those words of Earnest rung through her head, 

she thought,

while the crunch of fallen wood echoed from beneath her heels,

"What dreams I see now, huh?"

 

Came that hum,

while the charcoal pencil scratched

 

along the notebook's page,

 

and

the charcoal

shattered.

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Somewhere beyond, a silver spirit hums a gentle lullaby. It could not remember where it came from, nor why it mattered so much, faces, drifting just out of reach, names, mocking it from the tip of its tongue. But it could not forget that once it had loved, and loved dearly. 

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