#➤ 𝚍𝚞𝚝𝚢𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚗 ┊ wren & marin ➷ (𝟎𝟎𝟏.)

[flownintothesun]

            ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a plot, a ploy, a starter for @dutyworn .

       𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓... 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 — not that she’s entirely too familiar with the concept of gravity, for all the good that does her. Because wherever she is, gravity matters, and so does a sudden lack thereof that leaves her weightless and bumping into the ceiling. She can’t even compare it to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland — because unlike most little girls, she’d never had a copy when she was young. Dominik has never really left her without — there are other books, and music, and paints and canvasses — though oftentimes Dominik takes them when she’s done, and they disappear to wherever he disappears to when he’s not with her, and she’s on her own again.

     Except now, the controlled doors are open and Dominik’s not on the other side of them and there is a siren and bright red flashing lights illuminating the frame of the studio-like space she’s spent nearly all of her life in. Something tells her that’s not supposed to be happening — because for one thing, it never has in all of her twenty-four years of existence. Yes, she may very well fancy herself Alice, topsy-turvy and in a strange new world — were she to have ever made the fictional acquaintance of the lass. It’s definitely an experience — being jammed up on the ceiling with odds and ends of varying size and shape. Her hair is flyaway, and so is her dress, which she bunches into one hand, pulling tight around her for modesty’s sake as she swims along the ceiling with one hand toward something called ‘freedom’ that she can’t fathom — either because it’s too good to be true, or because it’s a concept she could never understand.

       She barely remembers life before Dominik. She’d only been four years old, after all. Even the things she believes to be true are most likely not. The only keepsake she has from a time before is a necklace with a flower woven into a heart shape — according to a botany book that she’s read cover to cover — it’s called a thistle. She can quote the entry back to herself for how many times she’s looked it over.

     Thistle. A weedy species of Cirsium, Carduus, Echinops, Sonchus, and other plant genera of the family Asteraceae. The word thistle most often refers to prickly leaved species of Carduus and Cirsium, which have dense heads of small, usually pink or purple flowers. Plants of the genus Carduus, sometimes called plumeless thistles, have spiny stems and flower heads without ray flowers. Canadian thistle (Cirsium arvense) is a troublesome weed in agricultural areas of North America, and more than 10 species of sow thistle (Sonchus) are widespread throughout Europe. Some species of globe thistle (Echinops) are cultivated as ornamentals. The thistle is the national emblem of Scotland.

     So few of the words mean anything to her. She sees things on television, she hears them sung about in song, and reads about them in her books — but they are things meant for someone else, never for her. What is Scotland? Was it once a home to her?

     Breaching the door frame makes her heart flutter and pound, or maybe that’s the weightlessness — everything rushing to her head all at once. She finds herself at the end of a long, rounded hallway. To her right is a wall with a few doors scattered about, and to her left is the vast enormity of everything — space, as far as the eye can see along a wall almost completely made up of windows. “Woah!” she gasps, and tries to step back, which of course doesn’t do her a lick of good. Her heart’s ratcheting now, in full-blown panic. Where on Earth is she? Or rather....where...not on Earth...is she?