COMMUNION
Communion with Nebula is as much an oxymoron as she sometimes is. It's the feeling of soft snow, gentle and embracing with its touch. A snow that feels too easy to fall into, like one's own nature. In the opposite extreme there's a fire that's searing to the touch - a constant thrum of anger. In this space, it encompasses all of it, though it's embers now. Embers that are quick to catch and burn and die again. For those who see into it enough it's in moments when she's angry - but most notable when she feels weak, when she struggles, when she worries.
This burning sensation fights ever with the cool nature of the snow. As if the anger isn't nature here and the fire is becoming more malleable in its embrace. Ever lingering, but faltering under the softness of that snow -
The snow is ever gentle and embracing, but lacks the cold (it is warm, it is self). But there is something that twists and coils in the sensation that is cold and empty. Something not alive is ever present, silent and moving, but is overwhelmed by the rest. It is not focus nor is it the all of here, but a moving part.
When Nebula speaks here it lacks the husky, mechanical sound her voice does in person. It's softer, but not warmer. It's just as conflicted and in this voice you know that this realm, in her mind, is the place she finds most comfort. Is the place she's far more willing to be herself than anywhere else: It's freedom. But the rage can burn up quickly, taking flight into sky-covered landscape. It feels like anger is the quickest thing to cling to and accept and even in this shared space any other (positive) emotions are in conflict of understanding.
|
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ She hisses the word out. Nebula is not a calm person. She is eternally filled with rage, pain, and self-hatred. The softness of snow clutches and curls, like a lost child trying to remember how to walk-to run in the direction it needs. Her temperment is harsh and rarely falters and yet... The surprise is prominent, inescapable. The expectation palpable. ]
[ Logic reasons that there must be other Gamoras in the universe, not hers. Something more fragile: belief, hope, a sardonic understanding of her life - their lives - tells her there is no misunderstanding. If there is Nebula, there is Gamora. Always first, like the lightning. And then there was Nebula, just as powerful a few seconds behind. Always behind. It as much a fact as there are stars in the sky, no matter where or when, Nebula will always be second to Gamora. An escapable feeling, though now it is no longer fueled with anger. For Set, to Set, the emotions escape in cascades with the image of green skin, dark hair tied red, and a promise: You will always be my sister. ]
[ In person, outside of communion, she swallows hard and does the mental equivalent of slamming the lid shut on a trash can. It does her no good. Gamora is not here. None of it. Dwelling on what is and isn't has never helped. The only thing that will is ending all of this - returning home. To where she could finally, truly be free. ]
[ She does not say it. She deftly ignores his exclamation 'Nebula, you-' and perhaps somehow she didn't hear it, despite the intimacy of this place. A flame shoots up and dies out, the impression of a flared nostril, the hint she has. She scowls, deep and low: ]
We will all make a choice.
[ They have all already made a choice, but she doubts how far some of them would go for it. (She dares not doubt how far she will go). She tries to force down her thoughts and expressions, become the steel and machinery that make up her being. Pinpoint all of it down and so she asks: ] What are you looking at?