icara aberforth } . district seven -- fin

("Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.")

She is the fire; she is the ice. She is the destruction in the storm, the chaos of the wind; she is the calmness in its center, the serenity of the eye. Her tongue runs hot, caustic, but it cuts like ice.

Her heartbeat is a roar. It is a furious thing, with a determined heat in each pulse. She finds her veins full of her own fire- blood will rise into her cheeks out either anger or flattery or frustration and set every other part of her ablaze. It begins in the blood, and blood runs deep.

She is an adamant creature- it is not often her mind shifts from one opinion to the next. Stubbornness and fire have served her well but turned around and split her spine with a knife. They say it will be her downfall; she says, "Fuck off."

They will hold a match up to her flesh, but you cannot burn fire, you cannot turn it against itself. They will whisper, breed rumors with their tongues, but they are minuscule and insignificant, like a fly humming through the air. A nuisance, but not one urgent enough for her to pursue with an open hand rigid in determination. She has made it clear with her steel and flame that she does not give a damn. They will mumble something under their breath, an insult, no doubt, by the sharpness of their tone. And she will retort in return, "Suck my ass," with a roll of her eyes. Another word will not be spoken.

Gwen is another story.

The two of them are far from one in the same. Granted, they are carbon copies of one another, but an identical face is one thing, hearts are another. Her twin is a brilliant girl who hides behind an assortment of masks in order to blend into the background with everyone else. She will turn her gaze to the clouds and pretend that her head is as empty of a single thought or spark. She will say to Gwen, with disapproval dark in every depth, every fathom of her hazel pools for eyes, "Don't try to be a little bitch when that's everything you're not. It's fucking pathetic, Gwen. Fucking pathetic." She credits herself the force that keeps Gwen from completely and utterly falling- she is not wrong.

The two are interlaced in a strange way. She will cast scorn and ice and flame at her twin, and yet there is love beneath every word, every scathing tone. She sees the lies, painted on her sister's skin. They are tattooed there in ink black as a thousand midnight skies, stark against its porcelain host. Everyone else must be blind: she sees them- they are as real as she is.

'CAUSE THOUGH THE TRUTH MAY VARY
THIS SHIP WILL CARRY OUR BODIES SAFE TO SHORE
THERE'S AN OLD VOICE IN MY HEAD
THAT'S HOLDING ME BACK
WELL TELL HER THAT I MISS OUR LITTLE TALKS