(Untitled)

[ironside_pixie]

It's starting to get cold. That's the first thing Kaye notices. The way her breathe ices when it hits the air, leaving a frigid cloud. So cold that she already can't feel her fingers and it suddenly seems a bad idea to be out without a coat and sitting on the damp grass, soaking through her jeans

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[lethe_forgets]

Barefoot and in the same thin, tattered dress - hopelessly fraying edges tugged, tangled between pale fingers. It's not the weather that makes her shiver, even if she would like to pretend that it is.

If you come as softly
As the wind within the trees

Oh, but that's too much of a lie - and she (can't) won't lie. (Not to anyone but herself.)

You may hear what I hear
See what sorrow sees.

Lethe doesn't make a sound when she walks (some small part of her laughs) and she can barely breathe - hastily gathering courage that she should have had ready.

[ironside_pixie]

A bug crawls along the grass, a fat red Ladybird. Kaye wonders if it's the season for them. Doesn't seem like it. Shouldn't it be seeking shelter from the storm of the coming winter? From the icy cold and the harshness of the air?

Maybe it's like her and it doesn't want the other Ladybugs to see. Things should be better now. Tangled legs and oh thinks he likes her; wants to think that desperately. But things are still wrong. How can she be happy when she hasn't made amends; twisted girl needs to set things right.

Her head is all scrambled and she doesn't hear Lethe, not the correct ears for that job anymore.

[lethe_forgets]

Lethe thinks of bells, how they make sounds - should wind a string around her ankle - such sweet sounds. Then paper masks and the colors sun catches on snow and Lethe closes her eyes hard and doesn't think of bells anymore.

She wonders, instead, if bravery works better very quickly - because she's still scared.

Another step and something seems to decide for her. Knees buckling gracelessly and the rest of her folding after - a fluttery, half-skittish, flurry of motion.

[ironside_pixie]

The seating of an unsteady Nymph startles the insect and it flies away, a blur of black and red. The cold will probably kill it sometime soon.

She's stolen Lethe's voice, so Kaye doesn't speak. Instead she picks up a twig and drums it against her palm, glancing at the girl from the side of slanted eyes.