Atem x Reader ☆ In the Twilight

Chapter 7

What am I to do?

Hopeless eyes search the seas for answer, yet the waves remain still. A sigh escapes downturned lips. You resist the urge to bury all the troubles lingering on your face into your arms. All the shadows in the world could not hide your restless soul. Instead, your gaze falls to the shell resting in your palms. Soft fingers trace the outline of its shape. It too is without hard edge or broken piece; the smooth surface is a delight for your careful exploration.

This is all too much for a girl like me...

There is the light tread of sandaled feet behind you. Accompanying the sound is the voice of a woman who calls to you. "And what sad eyes are these?" She says, "They are surely not those of my [Y/n]."

Margaret.

One of the Great Ladies of the city you know by voice alone.

The woman joins you on the lookout, one of many carefully crafted stone structures littered along the cliff face, high above the seas. Startling at her sudden presence, your body grows tense, and you turn to hide your face away from close inspection. The elder says nothing at the unreturned greeting and you feel shame sink within your belly.

"You did not join us old women at the peer today like you usually do." Margaret fills the silence kindly, "I was curious where you had gone to."

Ah, there it was, your cheeks were burning now too. You turn to her then, seeking to apologize. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm rather poor company as of late."

"My dear, you would have been among your people. This overcast weather has us all."

[E/c] eyes scan the dulling clouds, willing them to part and let the sun through. The skies have taken on a rather depressing tone lately, full of all the promises of rain, yet without the desire to actually give it. Time seems slower for it, and the days much drearier than you ever remembered.

"I wish the weather was all it was. Though it doesn't seem to be doing me any favors either."

"What has you so troubled, my dear?"

Your fingers grasp tighter around the shell in your hands. Its presence is a constant reminder of all the secrets you keep, of all the words longing at your lips, of all the things you can never say.

Can I never? The words eat at me so thoroughly I feel as if I might sooner die than be able to carry them a lifetime alone.

To your parents they were only stories. Fantastic tales born from a wild imagination. A source of worry on some occasions. The only thing they never were was truth.

What would it feel like to have one person believe? To have one person I can share this strange world with?

It might feel like freedom. It might feel like the lifting of a heavy heart.