#unedited okay

[ghourlfiend]

nepotism baby popstar

[mnemememory]

Yasha’s got teeth-marks down her spine and scars ripped down along her throat. Her callouses ache, but she keeps walking, because she isn’t allowed to stop.

Very good, Obann says. Thinks. Yasha can’t remember a time when he hasn’t been in her head, rifling through her thoughts like an open book. Her belongings hang at her shoulder, useless and heavy. If Obann wanted, she would leave them behind – her book, Zuala’s flowers. If he wanted to, she would lose everything she has built for her wife.

He can’t be bothered.

It almost galls more, his carelessness with Yasha’s things. She hasn’t washed her hands in months. There is blood and dirt tucked tight underneath her fingernails, the lines of her hand accented with gore. She sits when he tells her to sit, and she lies when he tells her to lie, but mostly she just walks. Obann is good at many things, but details are not one of them.

At night, when she’s allowed to sleep, there are manacles at her wrists and at her throat and she’s in that cart all over again, listening at her friends die behind her. She’s bound and weak and helpless, so helpless, just like she’s always been. Yasha tries to roar, tries to break free, but it comes out at a scream. There is so much inside Yasha that is screaming.

Walk, Obann says, and they walk through the magic-strewn streets of Rexxentrum. Yasha doesn’t wonder about Caleb Widogast, because she is not told to.

(If she doesn’t think about him, then Obann can’t know. Obann can’t see. Obann can’t use her even more against her friends).

(Are they even still her friends?)

The cathedral would have been beautiful, if Yasha was allowed to look. She follows at a distance and scans the road for possible hostiles. This has all been carefully planned, Yasha knows, but she doesn’t listen very often. It’s easier to draw herself backwards, sink down into something. Yasha has been fighting this thing in her head for who-knows-how-long, and it doesn’t matter. She goes away in the quiet parts, and comes back for the blood. She can be useful there: a shallow cut, an off angle. Nothing too deliberate. If she doesn’t think about it, and it isn’t noticed, she isn’t told no.

Follow me, Obann says. He likes the way Yasha follows, silent. It unnerves people.

Obann is talking to someone. Yasha leaves her head, and comes back when they begin walking once again. There are stairs this time, and they go down, and down, and down. There is fire. Yasha wants to reach out and scorch her fingertips against the flames. Yasha will not be allowed to do so, so she doesn’t even bother moving.

Obann is saying – something. Yasha blinks, and the world turns grey. Yasha blinks, and the world turns silent. The fire burns down.

“There is someone upstairs,” Obann says. This time, it is said out loud, which startles Yasha for some reason. She hasn’t heard Obann talk to them out loud in a very long time. “We must go back.”

Yasha doesn’t nod, doesn’t smile. Just starts walking up the stairs. Obann will know if she falters. Obann will know if she trips. Yasha is allowed so few freedoms. Her hands tighten on the hilt of her sword, and she feels sick, sick, sick. Her blood burns, and her skin tightens, and she’s angry as well.

(Yasha has always been so angry).

[thevampirecat]

So if anyone can tell me what the fuck is going on with Burn I would appreciate it. Because this just happened. And you don’t even want to know what led to this point.

So he walks. He knows where he is going, knows he’s searching for the one spot of life in this dead place. This tomb filled to the brim with emptiness. 

It’s not far, and yet the journey seems long, space and time stretching out before him, adjusting itself, throwing the world and everything he knew about it into stark shadow, hiding its face from him. 

Maybe it’s scared. More likely it’s shamed.

But he doesn’t want to think about that. Instead he thinks of her. About her golden hair and luminous skin, her blue eyes and her pink lips. The way she smells of rosemary and sage and earth, and how she tastes of sunshine and fresh air.

And how one day he knows he will lose it all.

Wouldn't it be good if we could wish ourselves away?

She’s where he thought she would be, sitting on a bed that’s no longer hers, ivory skin and hair turned silver spilling over her shoulders, and hands clasped in front of her. For a moment he thinks she’s praying.

He doesn’t know what she could possibly be praying for.

Yeah IDK either.