Zoya had never been one for euphemisms, metaphors and stories people tell themselves to shield themselves from the truth or coddle themselves from reality. Such things are for weaker people than her who cannot be trusted to do what is always needed. She has long since pulled off the blindfold men with stories of grandeur tied around her eyes. Nikolai is dead, and she will not look away from this truth. Her nails dig into her palm as if she can still feel the thorn clutched in it.
But cold and steadfast, she never wavers. Even alone here in this illusion. Chin held high, she is a wall containing the storm of grief and uncertainty. Dread. Guilt. Loneliness. And each one she squashes down with crunch of her boots across the snow.
She tips her head down, eyes closed as she listens to the almost imperceptible shift of water beneath the ice. For just a moment, she understands retreating into a lie, a place where Nikolai is no longer dead. And then just as quickly, she is scolding herself, clicking her tongue in admonishment and turning quickly on the bank she's perched on. But her quick movement disrupts the careful balance of snow she was standing on, actually covering ice. Even with lightning-quick reflexes, the ice cracks underneath her, plunging her into the water.
But it is not water she imagines in the seemingly slow moments where she plummets into the black depth. Her movements are slow and sluggish, is it what's surrounding her or just her mind moving more quickly than the reality around her. Golden haze takes her vision, she feels immobilized up her neck, over her mouth. Her legs feel heavy, pulling her down to the inevitable. She cannot fight this.
It was mistake to trust anyone but herself with her life, nostrils flared in anger, and then for the briefest moment regret to have succumbed to the fool's errand of want. A dragon's voice echos in her mind, her heart beating with the only impulse she could ever rely on: Survive.
It is not sticky golden sap that suffocates her, but the icy bite of water flooding her mouth, like a silver sword that forces itself down her throat. It infuriates her, that this place would steal wind and rob air from her lungs like she's done to so many men. She's tamed the winds and the sea. What's overcoming a little death on top of it?
Rage and spite are a perfect motivation for a resurrection.
Her fight is explosive, kicking and wrestling out of the grip of the water except that is not the grip of the water, it is the grip of a person and somehow the idea that someone would endanger themselves to save her enrages her more when she is perfectly capable of getting herself out of this situation, thank you she needs no help!! She throws her weight above the water, flopping onto the bank, heaving with the wet coughs that rack through her, spitting water onto ground.
Infuriated icy blue eyes meet her so-called-savior widening briefly into shock before they return to rage. ]
no subject
Zoya had never been one for euphemisms, metaphors and stories people tell themselves to shield themselves from the truth or coddle themselves from reality. Such things are for weaker people than her who cannot be trusted to do what is always needed. She has long since pulled off the blindfold men with stories of grandeur tied around her eyes. Nikolai is dead, and she will not look away from this truth. Her nails dig into her palm as if she can still feel the thorn clutched in it.
But cold and steadfast, she never wavers. Even alone here in this illusion. Chin held high, she is a wall containing the storm of grief and uncertainty. Dread. Guilt. Loneliness. And each one she squashes down with crunch of her boots across the snow.
She tips her head down, eyes closed as she listens to the almost imperceptible shift of water beneath the ice. For just a moment, she understands retreating into a lie, a place where Nikolai is no longer dead. And then just as quickly, she is scolding herself, clicking her tongue in admonishment and turning quickly on the bank she's perched on. But her quick movement disrupts the careful balance of snow she was standing on, actually covering ice. Even with lightning-quick reflexes, the ice cracks underneath her, plunging her into the water.
But it is not water she imagines in the seemingly slow moments where she plummets into the black depth. Her movements are slow and sluggish, is it what's surrounding her or just her mind moving more quickly than the reality around her. Golden haze takes her vision, she feels immobilized up her neck, over her mouth. Her legs feel heavy, pulling her down to the inevitable. She cannot fight this.
It was mistake to trust anyone but herself with her life, nostrils flared in anger, and then for the briefest moment regret to have succumbed to the fool's errand of want. A dragon's voice echos in her mind, her heart beating with the only impulse she could ever rely on: Survive.
It is not sticky golden sap that suffocates her, but the icy bite of water flooding her mouth, like a silver sword that forces itself down her throat. It infuriates her, that this place would steal wind and rob air from her lungs like she's done to so many men. She's tamed the winds and the sea. What's overcoming a little death on top of it?
Rage and spite are a perfect motivation for a resurrection.
Her fight is explosive, kicking and wrestling out of the grip of the water except that is not the grip of the water, it is the grip of a person and somehow the idea that someone would endanger themselves to save her enrages her more when she is perfectly capable of getting herself out of this situation, thank you she needs no help!! She throws her weight above the water, flopping onto the bank, heaving with the wet coughs that rack through her, spitting water onto ground.
Infuriated icy blue eyes meet her so-called-savior widening briefly into shock before they return to rage. ]
Nikolai—!
[ Naturally she slaps him.
It's nice to see him. ]