“Phainon?” Cyrene slowly lowers her hands. She knows that look, suddenly. The horrors of what had happened to them reflect in front of all their eyes so often. “Look at me. We’re okay.”
@sumartungl / continued from here.
“ — at’s w̵͉̒͝͝ ̵͇̘̗͊r̸͊͑̈́͠ ̷̍̊̈́̚o̵̳͔̿͌ — ” an open, gaping mouth, j▇w snapped, nothing left, no lips, no tongue, just teeth and bone, teeth and ▇▇▇▇, teeth and teeth and teeth and teeth and
Her hands fall away and everything is as it should be; no warm caress, only the heat of the sun against his skin, and the burning smell of a fire being started. She is boiling and red. Fingers charred. The foul smell of cloth and hair melting together.
It is Cyrene, not as she should be, but as she has been. Eroded to dust by his violent hands. Again and again, never stopping, forever moving forward while still stuck in place - the endless, desperate dance of a man on the brink of death.
Phainon blinks. His eyes widen. Clarity clings at the edge of his vision; a peaceful sun, an open sky, and her, Cyrene, in front of him. His hands tremble as they reach for hers, careful as he brings them together.
His gaze drags to one side and then the other. He takes his time deciding if he trusts what he sees. Unsure, he eventually looks back at her.
"Are we?" He asks, voice unsure and desperate for proof.
