I decided to start fleshing out a story that my boyfriend and I have been playing around with for the past few months. I have a really hard time typing for a long time without my writing completely deteriorating, so there's just going to be little chunks at a time. And the continuity will probably be terrible.
Please give any sort of feedback. I need someone else to spot mistakes for me, because I really can't... ;n;
(( and sorry if the beginning is sort of vague. D; I'm no good at expositions. I'll type up an intro of some sort if anyone wants))
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Soli Lilun Gingerin sat in silence, as she always did; body tucked in soft fabrics, as it always was; frail limbs still as porcelain and just as pale. The gentle curve of her shoulders gave way to the gentle curve of her nape, proud in her gentleness – or was it gentility?- and saintlike in her patience, in her years-long vigil of the quiet room. The glow from the window was warm despite the time of day, as the coolness of dusk brought coldness of mood and so displeased her. And so she changed it to suit her wants, like she changed the drapery and the floors, furnishing and walls, and, oftentimes, her own likeness to suit them. But want as she might, she could not stop the chill that crept along with the going of day, or break from her own solitude, the former simply because she was not able, and the latter simply because she was not willing. The unwillingness came for two reasons, and which the most prominent was, she couldn’t decide. In her pride she would proclaim it to be her very blood and namesake, to remain as a living monument to the regality of her ancestor deities. Their great and terrible might was sown into her flawless, delicate flesh: a hurricane captured in glass so that it may be looked upon with fear and awe. She would stay, motionless and composed, to serve as a living frame to her dreadful potential.
But as what she truly was, a girl – no, a young woman now, she could not deny it was also fear that kept her there. Fear of the outside world that had forgotten the old Gods, whose people would look at her with ignorance and cruel intent. Even with the blood of a God running through her, staining her limbs with wine, granting her bones grace, eyes piercing luster, and ears whispered promises of power, she was not one of Them. She aged as a human, albeit more beautifully, hungered as one, though she need not eat, and worst of all, felt as one (Oh, the loneliness and anxiety and fright that would tremble in her shoulders and palpitate in her chest!). Her bones, in their grace, knew the stinging cold of night, and her muscles, in their stillness, knew the numbing ache of fatigue. The whole of her being, in her inhumanity, knew all the heartache and bodily pain of humanity, and she feared them most of all (Her limbs- so fragile! And how sensitive her heart was, with the naivete of a child.)
But to feel as a human was a necessity; her kind could not create, could not excel in their arts without a heart or flesh that bled. The gift that was her raison d'être depended on the yearnings of the human heart. Her weakness and cowardice towards it was shameful, and she kept it to herself. Not that there was a choice in this solitude- perhaps one thing to be grateful for.
The girl swept a palm against her chair, its old, shabby frame decorated with rich mahogany and silk cushions (another one of the many things she disguised to suit her wants). She only wished the cushions were more than illusions, and that they would soften the hard, unforgiving surface they masked. Thin legs unfolded and lifted soundlessly away from it as she stood. Her head bent slightly, eyes considering the small bookshelf on the wall opposite her.
Every step across the room was taken gingerly, intently, and her figure bent to examine the rows of literature more closely. She had read every sizable tome at least thrice over, if not much more. They were her only companions over the years, her only source of joy and occupation besides weaving hallucinations. Soli couldn’t properly remember where she had obtained her collection, as somehow her memory had lost its grasp of her life before exile. Her childhood among the Gingerin family (and the sudden massacre that Soli alone had escaped) felt no more real or personal than what she could find in her books. She contemplated as she pulled one from its crevice and ran her hands over both covers, relishing the texture of the leather binding and the scent of the pages. The only thing she could so clearly recall was the fear, the feeling that she had never known before that had suddenly become all-consuming, swallowing whole the grief for her kin’s loss and driving her to the small abode from where she watched the world, and grew estranged to it. All she knew of love and adventure came from between pages of text, and she preferred the eloquent, artfully composed stories to her own dreary tale.
But moreso did she enjoy the variety of decorations in them: the gold leaf and color dyes of the Illuminated Bible; the ink etchings adorning each chapter of Roman de Silenc; and the rich, romantic illustrations of Le Grand Meaulnes. She would pause while she read, gazing at the images, tracing her fingers gently over the markings in adoration and envy. The designs and drawings held fast, their beauty and their creators’ existence immortalized on paper, while Soli’s creations, crafted from Nothing, would return to Nothing.
She stared morosely, then replaced the book to the shelf without opening it. For having not done a thing all day, or all of the past seven years, she was exhausted.
Gingerin -
10-30-2010, 05:00 AM
