[She's not unhappy, she wishes she could tell him, one ear canting back to pick his voice up better. There's something nice and relieving that he chooses to speak to her as if she never left. Whether he knows or not, it makes her feel like she has a permanence beyond the physical.
She's not unhappy. It's not a lie, but it may not be the truth either. The fact is she has trouble identifying. She won't let herself stew often to feel anything outside of joy, most of the time, almost all of the time, because she needs to be that kind of anchor. People have enough troubles without a god who's meant to watch over them feeling sorry for herself. If she felt sorrow once, it was deserved, and she spent a hundred years in it, understanding why man had turned his back; and if she's adamant about spreading warmth and happiness now, it's because when she was forgiven, when she was seen, at last, she thought she'd feel nothing but euphoria for the remainder of her existence. Perhaps not for the first time, she passed shortly after. A death like that is taken for granted: to leave the living feeling rapture, to be beloved, to know one's done their part—she went to sleep happy.
Her ears slip to tilt back, following the motion of his hand, and there's a weary note in her groan, an unavoidable inflection of some knot in her heart. She wonders if it's been wrong to not let herself sit and miss those she'll never see again, seep in missing them to feel it completely. It had always felt like something that would hold her back, and before, she had the insight to see what was coming, to urge her ahead, always moving forward. Here? She's stagnant. She can't influence the sun. Her divine foresight was taken. She gets suspicious, and can't find the truth behind the chaos of everything, and although she tries to be useful—
Physical memories fluttering around her isn't something she anticipated.
With no indication she's about to pick herself up out of the way, sidelong from the ground, she glances with a whimper to look up at him. Then, in her sulking mood, she adjusts just the littlest to curl, bodily and legs, and nudges her cheek on photos, nearly tips her head upside down, and perhaps she's trying to answer, to show him, but she makes no attempt to get up out of the way. These are images from her own head. Not in the sense that they're secrets, but she stays over them, only corners peeking out from under fur, as if the square shape of these unmoving moments in time are her only means left to lay with the people trapped inside them, as if she's trying to weight herself enough upon them to reach them again one more time, even for a fraction of a moment.]
no subject
She's not unhappy. It's not a lie, but it may not be the truth either. The fact is she has trouble identifying. She won't let herself stew often to feel anything outside of joy, most of the time, almost all of the time, because she needs to be that kind of anchor. People have enough troubles without a god who's meant to watch over them feeling sorry for herself. If she felt sorrow once, it was deserved, and she spent a hundred years in it, understanding why man had turned his back; and if she's adamant about spreading warmth and happiness now, it's because when she was forgiven, when she was seen, at last, she thought she'd feel nothing but euphoria for the remainder of her existence. Perhaps not for the first time, she passed shortly after. A death like that is taken for granted: to leave the living feeling rapture, to be beloved, to know one's done their part—she went to sleep happy.
Her ears slip to tilt back, following the motion of his hand, and there's a weary note in her groan, an unavoidable inflection of some knot in her heart. She wonders if it's been wrong to not let herself sit and miss those she'll never see again, seep in missing them to feel it completely. It had always felt like something that would hold her back, and before, she had the insight to see what was coming, to urge her ahead, always moving forward. Here? She's stagnant. She can't influence the sun. Her divine foresight was taken. She gets suspicious, and can't find the truth behind the chaos of everything, and although she tries to be useful—
Physical memories fluttering around her isn't something she anticipated.
With no indication she's about to pick herself up out of the way, sidelong from the ground, she glances with a whimper to look up at him. Then, in her sulking mood, she adjusts just the littlest to curl, bodily and legs, and nudges her cheek on photos, nearly tips her head upside down, and perhaps she's trying to answer, to show him, but she makes no attempt to get up out of the way. These are images from her own head. Not in the sense that they're secrets, but she stays over them, only corners peeking out from under fur, as if the square shape of these unmoving moments in time are her only means left to lay with the people trapped inside them, as if she's trying to weight herself enough upon them to reach them again one more time, even for a fraction of a moment.]