🎵
She stares at his sleeping form, desperate longing clear in the depths of softly burning amber eyes, and yet her desirous stare is meant for the phantom of another. It isn't that she doesn't love this man who warms her bedsheets with the scent of herbal soap and a lingering hint of heated metal; quite the opposite in fact...
Sirina simply can't forget.
She knows the futility of dwelling on the past, has tried countless times to excise the other from beneath her skin like removing tumors or sucking out poison, but success continues to elude her.
He is like a mythical beast, something glimpsed in passing and impossible to capture, and his memory burns through every pathway in her heart and mind. She knows he has moved on. She begrudges him nothing. The walls of her soul have been scratched and scrubbed raw in every manner she can think to try, yet still he blisters from within, his heat that of a supernova star.
His imprint sears worse than a livestock brand and is seemingly just as permanent. She will always wear his darkness, his veil of stars, beneath her skin. This pain is so similar in sensation to the myriad other scars on her soul. It enchants her sense of shame, holds the hand of her guilt, and slow dances with all the regret she houses inside.
After all, it's her fault the one she can't shake is gone.
Slender, trembling fingers brush a lock of red hair behind her lover's ear, and for just a moment those sanguine strands lengthen and drape across the bare chest of another. They spill over muscle and sinew like rivers of blood, caressing tanned skin and crawling tattoos that had always fascinated her fingertips. She shudders, withdrawing her hand, and watches the slumbering form turn back to her sweet, freckled Ishgardian engineer.
Adoration blossoms beneath her skin at the sight of him, and yet the aching won't leave. It calls her from their bed to dress quickly, even clumsily, in a thin layer of black silk. Her bare feet don't make a sound as she stalks silently from her own bedchamber like a trespasser. She feels foreign and out of place amongst these walls.
The house is altered entirely now, but the garden remains the same. She couldn't bear to change it.
Relief floods her veins as she breaks free into the outside air. The inky curtain of stars overhead will always remind her of his fathomless eyes, and for a moment, standing rooted beneath a swaying willow tree, Sirina feels certain she can hear his voice, can feel the tug of invisible thread still binding her to all those she's ever loved - especially him. She wonders if the strings can be severed without ending her own life.
Would it hurt?
Would she feel the sudden void each flickering flame left behind as it snuffed out within her?
It doesn't matter. She won't sever them, not even if she could.
Not Cenisa...
Not Lucien...
And never Lukel.
This yearning will be gone when the sun rises, when the distraction of waking life slips in once more. She will tell Darren it was too lovely outside that night; it was a crime not to sleep in the garden... ‘Yes, this is the tale I will weave,’ she thinks as her body settles upon one of two covered, wooden benches.
The subtle scent of water-lilies dances on the breeze as her solemn, golden eyes close, and for the briefest moment is accompanied by a hint of lavender tinged with freshly spilled blood. Her lips curl into a tender smile, a single tear rolling over the slope of her cheek to wet the wood beneath her. Blackness encompasses her mind, and Sirina dreams of something she feels she lacks - family.
[This song has been inspiring me for a couple of weeks now, but I’ve been putting off writing for fear of dragging up bits of my character’s past. However, it demanded I write and not just explain how the lyrics/overall tone of this piece relate to Sirina herself. I hope I have done justice and respect to the characters referenced. Their writers all have places in my heart even with so much time and space between us now. ♥]
