Storms of the Sky

dear friend - XLVIII

TW: cursing

--Nyx--

Hurried footsteps press into the ground like indents in the snow. Cold, cold snow, is it?

They run down the darkened hallway, skirts billowing behind them. Firelight illuminates the hall softly, dripping down the creases and corners. Flickering light, dimming light.

"Fuck," They mutter, shoe lodges between floorboards. They spin around, eyes wide and mouth drooped. Curly hair bounces on their head, curling protectively around their ears. Eyes widened gold.

My dear friend.

They slam down on the floorboard. It snaps, splitters scattering across the thin hall. They turn then, skirts following, as they duck into a row of shelves.

Each shelf is lined, end to end in books. Dim colors, dull colors. Reds and greens and blues and blacks.

The Gold-Eyed walks, toe to heel, from the end of the aisle, all the way in. Dragging their finger across the dust and grime. Plucking one out, a crumbling book. They pull it close to their chest, those protective curls following their eyes.

"This better," They breathe. Eyes close, they pull the book open. It crinkles. They open their eyes. Gold irises skirt the pages.

Their body sinks, hands becoming easy on the pages. In the silence, they shake. Biting their lip, stifling a sob.

The book slams on the ground. They burst. Bursting in emotion, shoulders pressed to their ears. They heave, hands spread out to the side.

"Shitshitshit," The mutter, teeth clenches, eyes red. "Ahg!"

They spin, eyes wider than eyes should. Tears stain their soft brown, freckled cheeks.

"Tet?" A voice says in the darkness. It echoes.

Tet, who calls you that? Tet. Tet is someone's name for you.

"I can't...."