“Fallen stars, broken feathers, shattered halos, the taste of hell smothers even the mightiest heart. The darkest of thunders brew tandem death, unleashing chaos in its wake, yet in silence like the calm before a storm that doesn’t seek consent. So, trust me when I say, even angels have a single tear of ichor residing in the deepest corner of their souls.” My lowering voice transits into a husky whisper, heightening the effect of dramatization, earning an exasperated chuckle from her.
“What do you think about me?”
“What about you?” I murmur absently, the crunch of gravel under our languid steps illuminating the otherwise silent night.
“Ichor,” a cursory answer and curiosity glinting her eyes. I tilt my head pondering too. Everything about her was summer and buttercups, a flower wearing the scent of early spring and the very sun contained within her petals. Yet the nature of pretty things had never quite earned my trust, for even the most resplendent of landscapes always led one to the edge of a precarious drop just to witness the true intent of beauty; the power it bestowed.
And as for her, it lived within—a wraith untouched, a vial of poison that wouldn’t harm unless consumed, like napalm lilting the skies. Yet she remains oblivious...oblivious of what she could turn into.
“Ichor, you say? It courses through your golden heart, its semblance pure like the bewitching melody of songbirds. An undying fire it is, one that casts cities to rubble, and it wants me to listen.”
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