[ grand old house and its grand old bones. it's a wondrous thing at first, like walking into a peaceful painting from a time he's only read about on earth - lush and green on the outside with a wide open porch and doors that are just as open. it's surreal, the way he can feel her going through each and every one of the motions, step for step like a ghost. the hallways start off as any hallway might in such a house, ensconced in daylight from tall windows, but rapidly shifting the further down she goes, an almost descent that he can feel prickling along the edges of his consciousness, catching on the barbs of his mind and pulling down until she makes her landing with careful steps.
it doesn't sound like distress at first, not until the voices start as she lays her hands on each lock. quiet little hissing things from the dark, behind doors that tremble and rattle loudly and locks that respond in kind. down here, it is dark, crypt-like almost, a methodically kept prison where things moan out, unforgiving, unrelenting. he can feel it pitch deep in his chest as their whispering goes on: monster. murderer. abomination.
(but what's been birthed into that empty space in avior doesn't feel nearly as horrific as they voices say. the softest impression of a person that leaves a sweet aftertaste on the back of his tongue like chocolate in the past few days. it's quite hard to believe that all of those names belong to her.)
he doesn't quite realize he's on the steps leading up until something cool like a rail is under his hand, watching her now with his eyes (or with his mind's eyes? both perhaps?) as she is bowed over one lock in particular, the thing inside jeering monster! monster! like a school child on a playground, taunting. but he's here now, wherever here is, a house like a body, with its soul as much in its windows as it is in the depths of its basement, howling. he stands on the bottom most step. beautiful and terrifying, aching sweetly. ]
(Now, now, name calling's not very nice.)
[ his voice is soft, a muted brushed velvet, a kind offering of silk, a warm jacket stretched out and offered. ]
(I think you've spent enough time down here, darling.)
( the mind )
it doesn't sound like distress at first, not until the voices start as she lays her hands on each lock. quiet little hissing things from the dark, behind doors that tremble and rattle loudly and locks that respond in kind. down here, it is dark, crypt-like almost, a methodically kept prison where things moan out, unforgiving, unrelenting. he can feel it pitch deep in his chest as their whispering goes on: monster. murderer. abomination.
(but what's been birthed into that empty space in avior doesn't feel nearly as horrific as they voices say. the softest impression of a person that leaves a sweet aftertaste on the back of his tongue like chocolate in the past few days. it's quite hard to believe that all of those names belong to her.)
he doesn't quite realize he's on the steps leading up until something cool like a rail is under his hand, watching her now with his eyes (or with his mind's eyes? both perhaps?) as she is bowed over one lock in particular, the thing inside jeering monster! monster! like a school child on a playground, taunting. but he's here now, wherever here is, a house like a body, with its soul as much in its windows as it is in the depths of its basement, howling. he stands on the bottom most step. beautiful and terrifying, aching sweetly. ]
( Now, now, name calling's not very nice. )
[ his voice is soft, a muted brushed velvet, a kind offering of silk, a warm jacket stretched out and offered. ]
( I think you've spent enough time down here, darling. )