
Posted by sc. ophelia on December 9, 2008, 4:31 pm
98.117.212.235

Her mind is crazy with the fever that runs unchecked in her body. The boils had receded quietly into the black well of her skin, the sores were gone and Ophelia looks almost beautiful again - beautiful as she has always been, in the cold, ethereal way of stars that are vast and incomprehensible and so far away that it hurts to look at them and to want them. Beautiful in the way the stars stare like silent vigils at the ongoings of the pitiful and the mundane, how they do not judge but they do not want, either. They are untouchable but you need them, their love, their approval - but they have none to give. And it hurts you.
This is the way Ophelia looks as she floats into Desreal, her thoughts like so much smoke on an uncaring wind, and she watches the black shadow approach with only mild interest. His voice is hollow, his gaze sinister, his very name a profession of perhaps the deepest intricacies of his desire - the type of horse that her father would cringe to see her anywhere near. But Ophelia does not see this, not really; she is reveling in the nothingness that her fever gives her, the euphoric non-knowledge that she is burning like the stars that she watches and if Betrayal creeps closer, inch by inch in his festering, rotting body, she does not notice.
But her attention is drawn to something that she feels in him, for him, around him - is it a similarity? She wonders. She does not know much about herself; Stelios was the only horse that could draw her attention to introspection, and he is gone and she does not miss him but she does like to remember the times that he was near her. Ophelia does not know evil, and she does not know spite and the desire for power; and if she does not know them, then how could she know that she does not possess them?
"It wasn't intentional," she comments passably, watching him with her black, black eyes that roll with the fever inside of her.
AIR III | FIRE II2
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