Post by Maya of Psychon on Nov 6, 2014 5:50:16 GMT
A cobalt blue sheen, delicately tangled with a layered lattice of ice chains. Water flash frozen at centrifugal speeds and used to maintain an already cold drink at the edge of crystallization. It swirled at the urging of the darker blue stirrer in her fingers. The warm air joined the motion, just the smallest wisp of mist curling along the top of the glass. The delicate balance of temperature could measure its life expectancy in seconds on the Bajoran colony. But for a moment she stared at it watching the lattice of ice chains swirl in the shimmering deep blue with oddly similar eyes.
It was like the ice caves in the full light of day. Memories and emotion mixed and clashed. It was a favorite place and a despised one. A long held sense of home and belonging clashing with betrayal. A lingering and open, aching betrayal, an intangible loss that had nothing to do with ice. Nothing to do with the blueness of the fonder memories, memories separated by a hundred years swirling together.
For a moment she was running. Nine years old and closing on ten, already tall, already and outsider. Chasing the mists through the trees before the sun had time to burn them away. Her long black hair flowing in the crisp air as is slid down the mountain into Fordham, she ran with abandon and careless glee. The scowls she would catch when she arrived late for school would not be able to undo the crunch of leaves and shaograss beneath her boots, the taste of the mountain air mixed with the krowlach and meerpines. She would press the morning and race the slowly rising sun for the chance at seeing some of the white cats before they took to their high dens for the day's rest. It was a delicate and fragile freedom from structure and it resonated still, sixteen years later.
She hated Trill.
Bringing the glass to her lips she wished the memories away, for just this little now.
It was like the ice caves in the full light of day. Memories and emotion mixed and clashed. It was a favorite place and a despised one. A long held sense of home and belonging clashing with betrayal. A lingering and open, aching betrayal, an intangible loss that had nothing to do with ice. Nothing to do with the blueness of the fonder memories, memories separated by a hundred years swirling together.
For a moment she was running. Nine years old and closing on ten, already tall, already and outsider. Chasing the mists through the trees before the sun had time to burn them away. Her long black hair flowing in the crisp air as is slid down the mountain into Fordham, she ran with abandon and careless glee. The scowls she would catch when she arrived late for school would not be able to undo the crunch of leaves and shaograss beneath her boots, the taste of the mountain air mixed with the krowlach and meerpines. She would press the morning and race the slowly rising sun for the chance at seeing some of the white cats before they took to their high dens for the day's rest. It was a delicate and fragile freedom from structure and it resonated still, sixteen years later.
She hated Trill.
Bringing the glass to her lips she wished the memories away, for just this little now.
