Character Pieces, Fantasy, Home

At the Edge of the Water

Drip. Drip. Drip.

There is a girl who stands at the edge of the water. Who lets frigid water cascade down her pale skin, translucent beads that freeze for a brief moment before falling. The water collects in her dark hair, presses her soaked clothes close, leaving no imagination to her skeletal form. But it eventually falls, those terribly cold beads, to splash in bursts against the earth.

She stands there silently, her blue-tinged lips pressed together tightly. Perhaps to keep the water that fills her lungs, her throat, from escaping. Or perhaps, she is silent because she has nothing left to say. (She has spoken her agony a long time ago, what would be the point in repeating it?)

But regardless of how tightly she presses her lips, her screams still echo in the distance, not yet swallowed by the void. It is a warning to keep away, to stay away and hopefully avoid the same fate she suffered.

There are words in that heart-stopping scream, if one cares to listen. In that shattering sound, lies this lost girls final plea.

(Run. Do not linger, do not stay and let the dark frigid water that swallows everything claim you too. It is a void that takes and never returns. Run. Run. For that cold darkness has claws, and if you stop

Those hooks will drag you down too.)

Drip. Drip.

There is a girl, always drenched, always cold, who stands at the edge of that dark water, where deceiving gentle waves meet the shore. This child will never know warmth again, with never feel anything but wet, cold, water. Always dripping, endlessly rushing down her face, her body. As if she were still down there, under the water.

She is young, much too young to hold such a haunted look in her dark eyes. Eyes rimmed with pale pink and grey puffy skin. Skin too pale for a brighter color. If she has tears to shed, they are lost to the cold water always running over her cheeks, her nose, droplets catching in her lashes. If she sheds tears, no one can tell, and no one dares to ask.

Few can muster the sympathy for this small broken Sentinel, even fewer manage more than a second under her intense gaze. Terrified by her vision, the smarter ones turn and run and don’t look back. The others… well. Hard to say if she is worse than the swirling waves that nip at her heels. (She isn’t. But that is only because she is quicker than her stiff limbs giver her credit for.)

Drip.

Even fewer consider what she might be guarding. (But it’s better that they don’t ask.) If she is a shield for the people who come to the dark waters edge, or if she is baring something from the depths.

Drip.

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