xx █ — ♛ ❜ Hands held endless possibilities, whether it be for the wondrous creation of objects or the barren relentless destruction of things left behind. They were meant to touch, feel, bleed, and ruin. And how she loathed the sight of her own callused pads now, hardly dainty with clay caked beneath chipped nails and cuticles bitten raw. What else was there to do? Run through the shredded fabric of formerly glorious robes, reliving a molten memory of perfect conquer -- she had enough, a bubbling sensibility rising in the back of throat, burning in bile remembrance of the horrors feeling need to flicker behind tired eyelids in candlelight remorse.
Fire shaped the earth, crafted and molded it, burned it's weakness into nothing but ash. A sooted existence for all that squabble beneath it's purify rage and how she reveled in such a righteous path, a boastful behemoth of volcanic birth. Yet with those very hands she casts a steely amber gaze upon, hoping to rend flesh into cinders, she recalls the silken slip of rose cloth and the whisper tickle of maple tresses across knuckles rubbed bloody... The girlish chortle to spill from lips much sweeter and kinder than her own, lighting up an expression foreign to the regina of flame. It left a bitter taste to linger on her tongue, brazen in it's bold assumption of care, a churning concern for the sickly sugar that infatuated attention from those around.
Had she fallen prey to it? No, impossible, no weakness would be tolerated even behind this gilded cage made pristine for a crucified princess. But fingers knot against the thick of a pale palm, fumbling skin against skin in phantom recollection. Instead of dirt, what a shattered woman wouldn't give for the skirting of lithe digits or the wispy brush of chestnut locks threading through marred hands, braiding and brushing in kind in lieu of the boiling rage scratching at the dragonstone cobble beneath.
She was no such woman. She refused to be, but only in a lonesome range could she admit that fragile denial to herself.
