She's there when they turn -- one in a darkness, the other in threat -- sitting on the window ledge, shuffling her cards over the white bag they stay in. The palest shape of a form, traced as thought from the flickering of a candle flame. But his eyes would be too good for that comparison. Their kind's. Her light, even banked, even faint, is too true, too pure, for that simplicity. And her eyes settled, silver-blue, truest deepest light on the black ones beneath her.
There is no darkness she is not part of.
And she owns no fear in any part of her being.
And whether Star is there as Carlisle's Hope, or Edward's Promise, or a making of her own means, is not shown in this sudden solidity of appearance. Only the steady flip, flip, shuffle, flip of the cards in her hands in the silence of the shack -- the house of Ruin.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2010-10-11 02:42 pm (UTC)There is no darkness she is not part of.
And she owns no fear in any part of her being.
And whether Star is there as Carlisle's Hope, or Edward's Promise, or a making of her own means, is not shown in this sudden solidity of appearance. Only the steady flip, flip, shuffle, flip of the cards in her hands in the silence of the shack -- the house of Ruin.