It wasn't my fault that her father summoned something Other. It wasn't my fault that it took an interest in her. It wasn't my fault I no longer loved her. How could I? Here, in a rare moment indoors, I studied her and the way time had ravaged her shape. Contact with the creature beyond the world had robbed her of her skeleton, her skin, her hair. Here, reposing in the firelight, she looked something like her former self. She seemed to be all soft--solid--curves, and gentle mildness; short, as a lady should be, and plump. The light made her into a stained-glass figurine: a glossy finish over blue glass. Something beautiful, and warm. Notes of gold and purple moving under her--skin--caught my eye: the remnants of her last--meal--of gold dust and lavender. I watched as tufts of cotton and feathers began percolating through. Her--flesh--was already eating through the bedclothes. In her sleep, she was ignorant of the smoke that issued from where her body met the blanket. Something warm and gentle pulsed at her core. If I looked in the right way, I could see a network of veins spreading out like lace from her heart. I was overcome by a love for her I had not felt for time out of ages, and I pressed my lips to her forehead. The give in her skin and the bite of acid on my lips put a divot in the illusion of humanity. She woke. Yidhra turned to smile at me. As she moved, she undulated from her dimpled cheeks outward. The motion shattered the illusion. How could I love her?
Worlds are best when they feel heard
This is always the saddest thing. Why do I reread it?
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