I Am a Cold Wind Over Home
Dec. 5th, 2012 05:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archiveofarethusaJemesk asked Dawn what it was like to be dead, and a thousand words stuck where her throat should have been.
She was many and she was one, and all around the city were pieces of her. She was here with Jem, looking at him with eyes that found him stripped of fire. She was at the main house on Poyning Street, where her parents were even now fighting their slow, civilized war on the grounds of Jemesk's innocence. There would always be a part of her in the Faindown, something more than her bones, down by where the gaslights cast the specter of autumn into the night even in the green prime of summer. She was a phantom wind that would blow cold even in that green prime, and she knew every wave and blade of grass by touch. And there was all of her running from that cold, steely presence that felt more like death than death itself. There was this and so much more, things she knew and felt and saw that there were no words for and no words could fit.
Jemesk was an ember who had forgotten what it was to burn, but Dawn knew as she had known she was a woman of flesh in life that she was now woven of vengeance and purpose and reverie, all of it someone else's no matter how much it felt like hers. Breath did not make life. They were both learning that now.
She was many and she was one, and all around the city were pieces of her. She was here with Jem, looking at him with eyes that found him stripped of fire. She was at the main house on Poyning Street, where her parents were even now fighting their slow, civilized war on the grounds of Jemesk's innocence. There would always be a part of her in the Faindown, something more than her bones, down by where the gaslights cast the specter of autumn into the night even in the green prime of summer. She was a phantom wind that would blow cold even in that green prime, and she knew every wave and blade of grass by touch. And there was all of her running from that cold, steely presence that felt more like death than death itself. There was this and so much more, things she knew and felt and saw that there were no words for and no words could fit.
Jemesk was an ember who had forgotten what it was to burn, but Dawn knew as she had known she was a woman of flesh in life that she was now woven of vengeance and purpose and reverie, all of it someone else's no matter how much it felt like hers. Breath did not make life. They were both learning that now.