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khlassique

She burns at night, fire consuming her soul so that the sheets stick to her skin. Dreams she does not understand, does not want to understand, visions of men with embers in their eyes and darkness in their hearts.

That was the nature of men, she had been taught, for power corrupted even the best of them. She has seen that, lived that, and did not need for dreams to tell her what she thought she already knew.

She is water and ice; fire does not rest well within her body like the cold does. The sisters tell her she needs more meditation, more coldness, but she needs more heat, for her body starts to crave for the thing that hurts most.

Her nails rip red rivers into her skin.

The sisters bind her hands in wool.


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khlassique
14 March 2012 @ 11:18 pm

The branches rip at her dress, her hair, the delicate skin of her hands, yet she does not feel the tearing.


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khlassique
29 September 2010 @ 04:54 pm
 


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