It's just no good, Sal is better at action than she is puzzling over the grandest thing to say. Everything sounds foolish and clumsy and not enough, not by any degree. She already knew full well the awful guilt of leaving someone voluntarily, after all.
Just picking up and moving on somehow.
Leaving when you don't mean to, when everything you want — everything you need but didn't have the words to ask for, is already right in front of you...that's unfathomably worse. So she doesn't waste any time in booking it over to the porter. She pushes through the queue like some asshole whose house is on fire, but with her gun and sword belted at her waist, is there anyone alive who's really going to stop her?
Thankfully not. She remembers the route she would always fly to Anathema's residence over in Jeopardy. Her mind is too preoccupied to even wrap around the realization that she can do it, all of her magic, everything she thought she needed to be happy again, to be whole again. But It's not the magic that's ever made Salazanca ki Ioril who she is, of course.
Never had been.
Stepping up to the house, or more like landing ungracefully out on the lawn at a mad clip, she smacks the door full-fisted. Anyone, any sane person, would never open the door to a woman who looks like she just crawled out of the trenches, looking so determined.
"Anathema," she calls out, her gloved palm resting flat against the door. The name is wrung out of her throat in such a way that whole operas couldn't do proper justice to. The sort of anguish, a yearning that only a dying hero could make, as the music quiets down and the lights on the stage grow colder. Nobody in the audience even dares make a sound, holding their breath and somehow praying for the impossible.
no subject
It's just no good, Sal is better at action than she is puzzling over the grandest thing to say. Everything sounds foolish and clumsy and not enough, not by any degree. She already knew full well the awful guilt of leaving someone voluntarily, after all.
Just picking up and moving on somehow.
Leaving when you don't mean to, when everything you want — everything you need but didn't have the words to ask for, is already right in front of you...that's unfathomably worse. So she doesn't waste any time in booking it over to the porter. She pushes through the queue like some asshole whose house is on fire, but with her gun and sword belted at her waist, is there anyone alive who's really going to stop her?
Thankfully not. She remembers the route she would always fly to Anathema's residence over in Jeopardy. Her mind is too preoccupied to even wrap around the realization that she can do it, all of her magic, everything she thought she needed to be happy again, to be whole again. But It's not the magic that's ever made Salazanca ki Ioril who she is, of course.
Never had been.
Stepping up to the house, or more like landing ungracefully out on the lawn at a mad clip, she smacks the door full-fisted. Anyone, any sane person, would never open the door to a woman who looks like she just crawled out of the trenches, looking so determined.
"Anathema," she calls out, her gloved palm resting flat against the door. The name is wrung out of her throat in such a way that whole operas couldn't do proper justice to. The sort of anguish, a yearning that only a dying hero could make, as the music quiets down and the lights on the stage grow colder. Nobody in the audience even dares make a sound, holding their breath and somehow praying for the impossible.
A sad song, but not their song.