dieve

[dieve]

To a _____ was a “lotus” caught a’fire. She opened at midnight, her spindly petals the color of his blood that she colored her lips. A lily in the night. Lycoris from the tick-tock of the clock. She budded in the clear skies of the night. What started as the unfurling of a flower became a vibrant red blossom; a firework, a pretty, hand-sized blaze. Burning from the inside--matchstick petals; red-shimmer opals; her jewelry shattered piece by piece and decorated her skin with glassy perforations. Colored so pretty. She thinks of this feeling so beautiful, so pretty, she could not help but smile. Like a crazy-person.

[dieve]

Waiting for a Shadowless Noon.

Where are you right now? On this moonless night. On this night when lak’éa open their bloom for darkness’ dew, do you remember me?

         On this moonless night, he sat waiting for no one. In a room with windows on all four sides, he took in the night sky—without a bulb in sight, without a candle alight. The stars were deafeningly bright. Like pebbles rippling across water, each speck had its own ring that exploded outwards, outwards, outwards… until his vision blurred, and he could not stand to look at such a bright thing for that long.

         He made promises in his own head. Flower in a whore house; moonlight ale'éa; vexed Vie’ah, he gave the impression of a rosebud in winter with the way his lips colored crimson to the bite of the weather's cold. Destiny’s sinews had twisted and snapped a long time ago. The ropes that held him taut broke by each individual fiber. Adoration at first sight—restful days, sleepless nights; another dawn, another day, another drear of waiting through the moon’s days-long blink. His delusions had long since taken over his thoughts, his mind. No matter how cold his toes and fingers chilled, he continued to write on the parchment with his ink-like blood and the edge of his fingernail.

         Beautiful and lithe, he bloomed like the sliver of the moon on a fog-filled night. Robes adorned him. Heavy and unaccommodating, like a dress fashioned to a bird’s wings, fabric extended from his body into his chamber like a waterfall’s stream to a river. Beautiful young man, moonlit lack’éa flower of a man, the heavy robes draped across his body may as well have been lace with the way they fell below down his arms. White clavicles, crimson lips. Dewy cheeks, pink flush. Soft like a flower. His petals had long since been eaten through. Bruises lined the edges of where parasites repeatedly feed. Yet, from the base and the roots where the calyx spread, he remained untouched—a chrysanthemum unbloomed; a scroll of paper, ribbon’d, bound, with a knot pulled taut.

         The veil over his head shimmered as it fell to cover his bare shoulders. He was a being to look at. He was an existence to draw one’s eyes away from. Untouchable. Desirable. So lovely, yet bitten, bruised—having been kissed more than once, more than what seemed like one-thousand times…

        …with a heart that desired love above else; so, what of a tragic love? A love that could not come true. On this night full of stars drawn by clouds, on this every-day night where the candlelight from the other buildings flickered to & fro, did he remember him?

         What did he say his name was? His brightening, star-like white; his moonlit-under-blossoms light; his calloused hands and his repulsed eyes. Like the aftermath of a fleeting dream under the sun, he could not recall. Individual stranger; dangerous wonderful. Even if the ground ate the flowers, and the grass, and the lak’éa that opened only during lightless nights, he would continue to paint that resounding memory of the one who snipped the threads of destiny on his heart. He wished to hide in the shadow of the moon in opposition of that man’s blinding, shadowless sun.

[dieve]

Alliance in Adagio.

            He ruffled her hair. He wondered why she was the way she was. She didn’t move any more into his hand, nor did she move away. She didn’t know if she enjoyed their time spent together. No matter how she did feel about it, it wasn’t unpleasant. Amy buried her chin into her hands; her elbows were planted on her knees.

         They spent their time like this, sometimes. Neither he nor she knew when it began. She had been looking for a spot a while ago—a spot that was hers. A spot where she could get away from the noise and commotion. She was looking for a spot where nobody would go looking—not that they would, anyways. She was “always in her own world,” after all. Turns out, the spot she was most comfortable was one with someone else—someone who did not ask, who had no questions, who did not pay attention to her in any way. At first, she wondered if she was a replacement for someone else. Everyone was too stupid to see it, after all. She understood.

         Amy wondered why the Siegharts were the way they were. It was a topic she found herself wandering to whenever she and him spent this time together. She hated it when people touched her, but she was fine with him and his gentle hand atop her head. She hated it when people messed with her hair—the hair she spent every morning painstakingly tying, curling, styling to last the whole day—usually, anyways.

         Hey, your hair’s a bit different today. D’ja change the part? And you cut them straighter. Those bangs of yours. Well, I guess you should. If you keep doing it one style it’ll get old real fast. Change is the spice of life! Ha-ha!

         She remembered feeling both frustrated and thankful. Amy Aruha, thankful that someone noticed her hair? She had crossed her arms at the time and scoffed. Hmpf! What kind of girl keeps her hair in one style all the time? Idol! I-d-o-l! Of course I should do this much. She kicked at the ground and huffed. Her cheeks were rosy at the time. Rosy to her ears. Actually, she really cared at the time. The other day, a day before that day, she liked how Lire had parted her hair. Lire sat on the dining table chair and fiddled with her bangs. She seemed uncomfortable. Amy remembered how Ronan and Lass pointed it out in the morning. Haha, Lire laughed, I slept on my side, last night. All of my hair fell to one side… and I couldn’t fix it in the morning. They told her it looked good, and they went on their way.

         That morning, Amy had sat there in the kitchen. She sat in the seat next to the one Lire had sat in, and waited. Good morning, Amy! You’re cute again, today!—she got her hopes up, before seeing that it was Jin. Par for the course. What was she expecting? She ignored him and puffed her cheeks. Of course, I look good! Don’t I always!—she’d crossed her arms, at the time. Anything else?—she was expecting something, that time. What do you mean? You’re a super Goddess!—she hated that dumb, unknowing smile of his. What did he like about her? He didn’t even notice that she had changed her hair that day.

         She was expecting something, that morning. She waited and waited, and everyone greeted her as per normal. Normal-normal. Same-old, same-old. Honestly, she wasn’t expecting Sieghart, of all people, to point it out before anyone else. Not even Jin pointed it out, and he was the only one who paid attention to her—albeit a little bit too much attention. Since then, she found herself thinking about him here and there.

         She stole a glance at him. The morning breeze was nice. It would be a good time to write a song, or practice dancing. He did not take his hand off her head. She did not bother to get him off. If he felt like she was going to leave, he took his hand off her head on his own. They were in sync—like the tick-tock of a metronome, like the chord of a guitar, like the strumming of the strings in a piano. She liked that she didn’t have to waste her breath. And he didn’t mind. They were both chatty in their own way. They were both quiet in their own way. On this morning in the middle of somewhere quiet, she accepted his presence and he accepted hers.

         It would be nice, she thought. Amy was an envious person. She knew that there were things that she should not covet. She knew that there were lines she could not cross. When she thought of Sieghart, there was a pain in her chest. It wasn’t anything like romance. It wasn’t anything like dislike. She neither liked him too much, nor did she dislike him the way the other members of the Grand Chase did. She knew the line that she could not cross, and he never bothered to trace that line for her. In synch. Metronome. Tick-tock, as time goes on—four-four time. Twelve-eight. Five-seven. Strange and even more irregular; there were times she wanted to say something, to be clear about what she thought—to be blunt as hell, to ask him Why?

         She noticed the times when he put more food on someone else’s plate as soon as they’d finished eating. He poured cups of water whenever the group were drinking. Before someone could read a letter for themselves, he stole those papers and took a careful look at them—and he’d keep them sometimes. He laughed, smiled, was irritating and annoying—annoying, and annoyed. That’s too much, he’d mouth. They’re only kids. He muttered. She wondered why he couldn’t be honest about those feelings of his.

         Then again, she oftentimes wondered about the same thing, about herself.

         When would she stop pretending like she hated them? Like she wasn’t “like” them. She wanted to laugh with them, too. She wanted to crack jokes, sound like a bell when she laughed, sing a tune for them to sleep—whenever she wanted. Wherever she wanted. Perhaps he saw himself in her, and that is why she was so comfortable with him. Or not. Because she knew people better than they knew themselves. He did not love her. He did not even care about her. He was doing what came naturally to him—and yet…

         It made her sad. It made her more terrible than anything she’d felt before. Maybe. It made her write songs, it made her want to sing. It made her wonder. It made her think about the things she hated thinking about the most: herself, and other people.

         Amy understood that he was the saddest person in the universe. She knew that she was right.

         … What’s this?

         What’s what? She glowered at him, hiding the paper on the table with her hands.

         What’re you up to, Miss Singer?

         That’s a lame name. My name is Amy! You’re so old, you can’t even remember that?

         Watch your mouth, girly! he sighed and pressed his knuckles into the top of her head. He leaned over, pushing her out of the way. It was easy-peasy—a little girl like her couldn’t do anything to someone like him. She tried grabbing her paper but he’d snatched it before she could do a thing.

         …It’s bad! she scoffed, crossing her arms; crossing her heart. Something like that… it’ll never make it anywhere! I’m not a great songwriter.

         Sieghart scanned it up and down. Amy felt a cold sweat down her cheeks. It didn’t suit her, right? Lyrics like those. A song like that—a song like that… not with her voice. Or her image. Or her rose-colored pink. It was embarrassing, and humiliating. But if one person thought it was okay, then maybe it was okay. If one person said that she could do something like that, then she would have the strength to do it multiple times over.

         She remembered waiting a very long time for his answer. She remembered expecting, again. Always expecting. Always waiting.

        “… So?”         “… So, what!”         “Aren’t you going to ask me what I think? Cheeky kid.”         “What!?”

         Amy felt her cheeks become warm. It was like she was caught doing something bad. Something childish. It was like—it was like, it was like… she had been caught trying to take cookies out of a jar that was placed too high for her. It was like—she was caught ruffling through someone else’s things without permission! Like she was caught… for stealing someone’s pencil, or something. It was a new kind of embarrassment. “Why should I ask you!”

         “Ha! It’s all good. It’s part of being youthful, I guess.”

         “You talk like an old man. It’s gross.”

         “Hm…..”

         He looked over the paper again. He was displeased. Unhappy, even. “Then, until you learn to ask about what you want from people…. I’ll just tell you. It’s much easier than dealing with your attitude.”

         “What!?”

         She was flabbergasted. At that point, she’d stopped fighting his hand. It was planted firmly atop her head.

         “Hmmmmm….” He pondered, dragging out the time on purpose. “As I thought,” he carried on, and on… and on… “—a kid like you…”

         That’s when it started, she thought. That’s when she slowly began understanding him. He was annoying, and frustrating—irritating. And he did whatever he wanted to, without no care to other people’s feelings. She was so angry that she began crying. No. She was already crying before she felt angry. She had been crying for a very, very long time. She was more sad than she was angry. She was more embarrassed than she was frustrated. She remembered covering her eyes at the time, unable to do anything—or say anything. She could only imagine the face he made, at the time.

         … it was an expression she could not covet. She could not want it. She could not ask for it. It was a line she did not cross—nor was it a line she wanted to cross. If she said anything, all of it would end.

         She remembered not seeing anything, refusing to see anything. Refusing to say anything. He sighed and pulled her close to him; he let her rest on his chest. “You know,” he said, slowly, tiredly, “kids like you—a kid like you…”

         Amy felt herself choking up. What was it about her, that made everyone avoid her? What was it about her, that made her push everyone away? Because she wanted to be with them, too. Lire was good at singing. Amy wanted to sing with her, too. Arme loved dancing. She looked like a fairy in the forest, with her small legs carrying her here and there, tossing flowers as she went. Amy wanted to dance with her, too. In the quiet night, she heard it once—someone’s clumsy lullaby for someone else. That clear, ringing voice—that pretty, deep tone. She wanted Elesis to comfort her when she had trouble sleeping, too. The three of them—they were so close. They were all girls. Why couldn’t she be one of them? One of them. With them. And yet, she always stood on the sidelines. She was “too good for them,” she was “professional,” she was… an idol. She couldn’t possibly want something that others could have. But, really…. who was the “other”?

         “A kid like you shouldn’t have to worry about things like this.”

         “Mmhm—” she nodded. The tears ran from the palm of her hands down her arm.

         “Hey, Kiddo—”

         … she tried to respond but couldn’t. He sighed and patted her head.

         “It’s a good song. But I don’t think you should sing it. Not for anyone else, not even for yourself. It’s a good song, Amy. But you’re too little to think about things like this.”

         “Uh-huh.”

         “You’ll be okay. When you get older, you’ll see that the things you’re worried about aren’t really all that big.”

         “Mm.”

         “This is why dealing with teenagers is tough, huh? But, that’s all fine by me.”

         “…”

         “You can cry on me, kiddo. Yes… like, as if if I were your…--”

         He stopped. She knew why. Sieghart was the saddest person she had ever known. He was probably the saddest person in the world. He held her, and comforted her, and patted her. It made her long for something that she had long forgotten, in the world she lived in. Every time he stroked her hair, it was like wind was passing through an empty hole in her chest.

         … Sieghart.

         She remembered feeling tired that day. She hated doing errands. She hated being outside. She hated being gawked at, stared at, courted. She hated it when people grabbed at her. She hated it when people looked at her. She hated those eyes. She coveted their gaze, at the same time. That day, she felt sticky fingers grab at her thighs. Alarmed, she jumped back a little bit—before realizing it was a small child, looking up at her, entranced by her prettiness. She was confused at what to do, but she wasn’t stupid. She smiled and kneeled down, allowing the child to stare for as long as he wanted to. He could not have been older than four or five.

         He had come with a group of seven. They were all children, playing little childrens’ games. There was not an adult in sight—after all, the people in Bermesiah trusted their children and felt safe with the Grand Chase around. She remembered looking at him, then.

         Usually, his guard was as high as Serdin’s towers. He knew when people looked at him. He knew when there were people that no one else could sense. He knew when someone focused their attention on him—to loathe him, to seethe at him, to kill him; to admire him. She watched him carefully, with all of her interest. Stupid man, she remembered thinking. Why would he do that, she wondered. With all of her heart, she wondered why—why was he doing that?

         Why did he insist on doing things that made his heart hurt so much?

         Sieghart loved children with his entirety. How could he be so saddened by what he loved? Like a disorienting tune, he faded in and out of musicality. She both wondered and understood. She both knew and didn’t know. The tune of his heart. The tune of his feelings. The tune that he paced his steps to… had so much more to it than the melody. It was like the beats were falling into place, like lyrics were forming in her head.

         As if he was her father.

         She could cry on him, on his shoulder, in his arms, under the weight of the hand on top of her head… as if he were her father.

         … Amy Aruha coveted something she could not have. Her worries, her concerns, her troubled thoughts—her problematic heart. The morning was cold. And the breeze was uncomfortable. He would not keep her close, the way she wished he would. And she could not try for more, even though she wanted to. He did what was necessary for her, and she remained “ignorant”—because she knew.

         Sieghart was the saddest person in the whole world.

         The person who he wanted to recognize him the most… would never see him the way he wanted her to.

         And Amy Aruha knew—selfishly, jealously; insecurely, tiredly, unhappily; understandingly—that the only thing either one of them could do was fill the family-shaped hole in one another’s hearts with a solemn agreement of silence.

[dieve]

Memoria.    

             He held her hands into his own and pressed his lips to each of her knuckles. Slowly, gently. No time had passed. All the time had passed. Perhaps he was not too far from his impulsive adolescence. To those around him, he was plenty old enough. When he looked into the mirror, he did not feel a day older than that condescending “youth.” He loved her eyes—they were his favorite part of her. She was his ether, his reflection, his mirror that reflected the same vision of shooting stars in the sky. He remembered staring at the night, dizzy from laughter, drunk off brandy and song, with her hand in his and his hand in hers.

             Sieghart had always thought she looked good in dresses. He could not get it out of his mind: white dress, white veil, white crown, white rose—so bright and pure, the vision of her made the gray in his eyes shine like silver. He could not wait to kiss the bride, and he could tell from the warmth in her cheeks at the time, that she could not wish to kiss him as well. In his memories, that was the third happiest day of his life.

             Caressing her belly, he kissed her neck and rubbed his cheek into her ear. “You’re beautiful. I can’t wait. What do you think it’ll be?”

             “Hmm…” she smiled. Her features had long since disappeared into the candle’s orange reflections across the room. It was cold. She was cold. He was warm. His hand moved from her belly to her side. Like a glass vase, she was his most beautiful clear, his spyglass—his clarity. The thing that kept him from sinking deeper into his doubt. Too young. Too immature. Too thoughtless. He was already thinking about what they would do when he came back. When all that’s said and done, maybe he’d find a house in the country—far off in a village, to the south. He’d dreamed of living in a temperate region. A small cottage, in a village full of friends and family.

             “I’m not sure. Hopefully I’ll feel kicking, soon. If it kicks often to the left, it’ll be a boy, I think,” she laughed. “Or maybe not. You know how that old maid is.”

             “Your mother, yea? I hate that woman,” he replied in jest. That ‘old maid’ cried so much when she heard the news. I should have never let you marry him, your life is going to be ruined at this rate! And so on and so forth. She was crazy for months. But crazy was an understatement—because she’d cried like a madwoman when she saw her daughter, smiling in his arms. He considered himself the winner of that war. He held her closer and let her hair tickle his face.

             “I know you don’t mean that,” pause. “Say, do you have any ideas, yet?”             “Ideas for what?”             “Names. Anything.”             “Even though we don’t know what it is, yet?”             “Mm….” she put her hand over his. Her hands were cold. “… either way. When our baby             is old enough, we should let it know that we were thinking about its name for a long time.”

             “Our baby, hm? My Love. Your Love, now. Ours.” “Are you listening to yourself? You don’t even sound like yourself, anymore.”

            He laughed in response. When was it, when he changed? Why was he waiting so impatiently? He never saw himself a father at thirty-one, much less twenty-one. He thought he’d be traveling the world. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-five. Twenty-seven. He would be a hero from west of Serdin to the far end of Lake Aurora. And he never once doubted that she would be by his side, his rose, his light, his companion—his Only. But this, too, was alright. His entire soul was one of grandeur. He would find his way across the world, some way or another. One plan would be replaced by another.

             “Hm… if our baby is a girl, let’s become merchants. And if our baby is a boy, let’s become a family of warriors. He’ll surpass even me.”

             “What if she wants to be a warrior herself? A swordsman.”

             “Kanavan is the land of swords. It wouldn’t be hard. After all, boy or girl, it would take after me. The best Gladiator in the past one-hundred years. The Legend. I’m like a god amongst men. And I’m immensely handsome, too. You’re a lucky woman.”

             “Normally, I’d have something to say to that…”

             “Normally, you would.”

             …. He would dress his baby girl in endless silks from across the sea, her feet would never have to touch the ground; she would be the most sought after and protected lady of Bermesiah. And he would give his son a glorious sword that would earn him his own deserved glory. But first, he needed to think about what he would do when he came back from his expedition. One more trip before he came back for good. Archimedia was so close. How long would it take? Three months? Four months? Six? He felt her slow, deep breaths. Asleep. She needed all of the sleep she could get, after all. He nuzzled himself closer to her and adjusted the blanket over the two. He would turn six months into five. He would turn five months into three. He would come back to her, no matter what it would take.

             He wondered, if he knew back then, what he would come to know—if he would have stayed with her. Against the backlash. Against the pressure. Against the desire for glory. Would he have swallowed his pride and stood his ground? He remembered the curves of her face, the outline of her eyes, the dimples in her cheeks—it was as though he could go “home” the moment he wanted and she would be waiting there for him. And her voice, her laughter—how could he forget? Or perhaps he couldn’t forget. Through all the time that had passed, it was both a blessing and a curse. He would go back to that same house, to that same bed, to that room lit by candles and crude kerosene if he could.

             What would it have been like, if he’d come back and held their love in his arms? Would it be small? Would it be large? No matter how much it cried and no matter how much it drove them insane, he could only wish in his distant dreams the feeling of something squirming against his embrace. “What was your name?” he wondered aloud, his eyes pressing hard against the tears that threatened to turn his face into a canvas of falling stars. He wished he suggested something. Anything. Even if it was a joke of a name, even if it was a silly nickname—he wished that he had at least something to hold onto that was theirs. In the end, her hands were cold because they were long gone. And her body fell asleep because she would never wake again. By the time he’d opened his eyes, everything before him was gone. Silver eyes that had once reflected her dress in his dreams became dull as the years eroded his spirit.

             She was his will. She was his everything. The baby that had not even begun kicking inside of her—he knew not its name, nor its gender, nor its anything. He would give everything to hold what could have been in between his hands. His recollections of the past found itself unsorted between his fantasies of what could have been and his reality of what did.

             … No matter how much time passes, at least the stars remembered. Perhaps they were pitying him, his soul that had been wandering the land since celestials had laid their eyes on him. Not known to life, nor known to death, what was he? Stuck in stasis. Stuck in waiting. Stuck in wanting. He often wondered about what-ifs. A new love. A new life. A new family. And he would stand there, never aging, never changing, as his supposed new love lost her beauty and became old and insecure. And he would live to see his what-if children grow from infancy, into children, into adults, then find love, and marry. Eventually, they would grow old and leave him behind.

             The echo of his Only’s existence was caught in the amber of his memories at twenty-one.

             Too young. Too immature. Too thoughtless. He wanted glory and fame. He thought he would come back in “due time,” told her that she shouldn’t worry—not one bit. Not about him. He would come back, and he would love her as he always had. When he came back, they would know which side the baby kicked more. They would have decided a name together. They would have lived out their days growing their family in the countryside, and he would accept land, titles, nobility—so that his child would never have to worry about anything. He would have bitten his pride to give their love everything.

             But he couldn’t. He didn’t. Was glory so important to him, that he could not wait before following bard’s songs about Archimedia and honor? Too young, too immature, too thoughtless. He remembered the reluctant smile on her face as she reassured him; that she trusted him. And that she loved him. He would come back for her, surely. Through the wounds and the scars, it was not anything that he hadn’t done before. With youth’s twinkle ever present in his twenty-one, he brandished his sword and held it to the air: “This journey is for my wife, my One,” he remembered grinning at her. She smiled back, confident this time. “For our baby, too. Prepare your presents, you geezers and friends!” As the cups clashed against one another. As the golden liquid of valor sloshed and fell in droplets to the floor. As the fire crackled. As warriors cheered, as his comrades laughed, as he held her face in his and kissed her with brandy on his lips.

             In his dreams, her lips were soft. In his memories, they were chapped. And a little bit dry.

...

...

...

             She was young. And brisk. Like July’s vivid summer evenings, she was painted the color of endless twilight. Not quite past being a child, not yet an adult. A girl forced into her role too soon. It was enviable. It was beautiful.

             If his eyes in his youth were that of a mirror to a starry night’s tearful adagio, hers were to the discordant tune of a glowing bonfire. Passionate. Bright. Red. More so than anything he had seen, she was a bright, cute, maraschino-cherry red. Like the flush of a child running through fields, summery red. He found himself loving her, inexplicably, and suddenly. A child he recognized at once as his. Was this Agnesia’s gift to him, after so long? When he saw her, he could do nothing but cry. So he laughed. He laughed hard at her, at her mistakes, at her inexperience—at her frailty; at her sweet, childlike anger. He knew not any other way of expressing himself. Everything made him feel happy.

             His forever twenty-one, stuck in time. Broken clock. A timepiece whose sand corked itself into a perfect stopper between the two halves of glass.

             She was his daughter; of children he never met; with a name he would not have chosen; looking nothing at all like him. It was like the earth jolted violently under him, forcing his hourglass unstuck for the first time in a long time. The world spun like it did the days he held his wife’s fingertips in his. It was the happiest day of his hundreds of years of life. So he laughed—and cried. And laughed some more, all while he pointed out her mistakes. He smiled from ear to ear. The stars that ran from his eyes down his cheeks stopped at the crescent moon of his dimples. He knew of a love so great only once in his long, long, long lifetime. He knew a love so instant, so instinctual; he knew it the second he looked at her. On that bright day in a Kanavan he no longer recognized, on that sunlit day that smelled like wet grass and florals, he found her.

            My Daughter. With my last name. Elesis Sieghart.

[dieve]

           He looked over the city. Night-time lanterns filled the ground and deafened the sky. It looked as though the stars and the ground had switched places—a strange reversal of the things he knew. It was nonetheless a beautiful sight.

           Ronan wondered what he was going to do. Oftentimes he felt as though he were floating in air. His legs were suspended in the air and his arms could not find someplace to right himself. He wondered why his hair still touched the ground despite his floating on nothing at all. Only some things had gravity, and the most important part of him: himself, could only suspend itself in air forever. His gloved fingers were cold to the touch. His cheeks, nose, and ears were colored pink from the night’s frosty kisses.

           He wondered if he what he was doing was right. ‘Correct,’ ���proper,’ a knight first and foremost—a comrade, friend, a lover, in descending order of importance. You make me feel like I am on air. His heart hurt. You make me feel like I am struggling to grasp for air. His fingers ran over the locks that fluttered about his face. It was itchy. It was uncomfortable. Was there ever a time in the past that he thought that? He had always basked in the golden light of Kanavan’s grand chandelier. When did that change? The only time he could think when he was in the capital was outside during the interlude of hand in hand, hand on waist, shoes on crystal, and crystals hanging from the hems of dresses the colors of petals plucked from their stems. I want to be free like you. Dressed in white from the ribbon braided into his hair to the shoes lined in gold detail. Did he look good? Did he look handsome? Was he enough to sweep her off her feet? With just his looks, his smile, his hair; would she look at him, then?

           Her skin was covered in cuts. As though her very existence curled in on itself, the sharp edges of the paper that bounded her soul slipped in and out of her flesh. Perhaps others saw her differently. Like a beast, like an animal—she shimmered like a dancing fire when the sun set and she was like rose petals when the sun rose. She dimmed like coals throughout the night, and she was wilted like a bulb cut from its stem. He thought it was both lovely and terrifying. It was both pitiful and wonderful. From the height of his status to hers, she was small and delicate. Why did she fight so savagely, so desperately? Why did she let every expression make it to her face? And how could she smile, the cushions under her eyes shelving red-colored crescents softly the way they did? Was anyone seeing what he saw? Because it drove him insane, the way she was. The way she existed. From the beginning, he was aware of her.

           Elesis.

           It was a position that naturally fell into her hands. She took it and tried caressing it with her calloused fingertips. He remembered holding her hands in his. Leader. And co-leader. Of something that stood on the opposite end, so far, so far that he could not even think of what it looked like across the horizon—of a group that he could never admit that; a group that he loathed for a very long time. Because in his dreams she, too, would be dressed in white from the ribbon in her hair to the ribbons that would decorate the heels of her shoes. In his dreams, she too, would be stood next to him on an anonymous terrace in the tingling cold and thin air. In his dreams, she was a knight of his caliber. And she would be decorated from head to toe in accolades of silver; the color suited her.

           He wanted to trap her as much as he wanted to let her run free. He wanted to cage her as much as he wanted her to continually fall, become hurt, and then he could be there to dress her wounds again and again. He wanted to kiss her fingers one-by-one and adorn them in diamonds. He wanted to put crystals into her ears and let them fall to her chin. Luxuriously. Ostentatiously. The only way he knew. He both hated how dirty she would allow her wounds to become and loved when he would be the only one to wash the infection away with his touch. How much longer until he gave into his desires? Wanting to hurt her himself. Wanting to cut her himself. Wanting to be the ones that traced over the scars over her body with the edge of his fingernails. Wanting to hold her steady in his arms until she could not move away from him—until she allowed him to love her the only way he knew: splendidly, indulgently, lavishly. It put knots inside of his stomach. Jealousy. Envy. He understood well that others would love her without the desire to hurt. He knew well, the kind of persons who looked at her with only wonders in their eyes.

           Ronan Erudon. Honor. And control. From the beginning, he was someone who was important. In his youth, he was bathed in water tinted in gold. In his adolescence, he walked on a carpet covered, plush, in flower petals. He was blessed—excessively so—to the point of being more beautiful than he were handsome. Calm, storm-colored blue. He walked, moved, spoke, and smiled to the tune of the strings of crystals on strings of silk that sounded chimes with every controlled tug. He loathed the ugly, and he adored the lovely. He hated filth, and he loved the clean. He enjoyed pale colors that turned bright white with the sun’s morning rays. He asked a different lady for every dance and loved them all as they loved him. Respectfully. Charmingly. He was praised by the ugly to be someone so honorable and whole, that his protections were like a bright star that followed women and children wherever they went to keep them from harm. He was walking perfection, and he understood that much.

           …it was no surprise, then, that his hatred were absolute and perfect in its execution. It’s not like you. You are not that person. That person… was Kaze’aze’s puppet, you know? Those clumsy words followed him from time to time. Like a child that could not help but chase after a caravan of toys, those who rallied around him from the time of his corruption to the adult him, the perfect him, the crystalline sparkling he—Ronan hated them, too. From the beginning, he was not a forgiving person, nor was his niceness equivalent to kindness, nor were his prejudices pure and heroic. He never sought justice, he only sought to look wonderful when the light bathed him in praises. He remembered gasping in surprise, once.

           “You’re a ---------- person. But you already knew that.”

           He remembered feeling angry, back then. It boiled to the surface like nothing he had ever felt before. Did he even know how to feel, before then? Did he even know that his vision shivered when he was angered? Or that his fingers ate into his skin in fists before his brain could grasp the words he wanted to say? … did he ever run across blank white when it came to words he wanted to say? During that ordinary night, like any other night. Across the fire that was like any other fire. Did he want to become wild?

           “That’s the kind of look you should have. I’m looking at you, Ronan.”

           … he had been staring at the sky for over an hour, now. The sun would rise in a couple of hours. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to the person who looked at him and scoffed. Ronan opened the door and returned to the party that shimmered a little bit too brightly for him, now. The crystals on the edges of the curtains looked unfashionable, now. The chandelier looked bigger and brighter when he was a child—it could be prettier. Larger. Fancier. More extravagant, brighter than the sun, even—if it was up to him and his opinion. His face lost its precious red flush as the warm air circulated around him. He hated heat. He hated warmth. He hated the expectant looks of those who “loved” him. He hated those who praised him. He hated those who told him that he was an ultimate good. They held him faultlessly in the safety of their endless, gaudy gold.

           He was glad that he could not see himself from the eyes of someone else. He took a lady’s hand and kissed her knuckles as he smiled. “My Lady. Would you care to have my final dance before I retire for the night?”

           Ronan Erudon was unwaveringly perfect. He was trapped by his own------. He could not leave.

[dieve]

In the end, you are standing atop that jeweled tower as always.

... She could not believe her terrible luck. To love someone so arrogant, so strange in the mind, twisted topsy-turvy--and in the end, her love stood the same as it always were.

Elf.

Elpalt’sha.

Living like this--was it really living, at all? A noble species long ago, what had they become now? Where were their gods now? or perhaps it had always been a godless world from the very beginning.

Airis would have never thought about things like that until she met that woman. She had been more beautiful and strange than any longtime love that anyone could feel. Stasis. It was a gift from a clam off a distant coast. The story of that went like this...

North of Yu’rele, in a distant kingdom’s past, back then, language sounded more like the titter of birds and words flowed like songs rather than sentences. And the ve’ka for ‘song,’ the ve’ka for ‘sentence,’ were nothing more than concepts in the air. And many times older than our existence, there was a clam that spilled nacre from its lips--from the inside-out. And a little while before we realized ourselves, that clam opened itself wide--ve’ka. Like words and sounds, similar but not quite, when we opened our mouths, out came pearlescence.

Soul. Stasis. Elpalt’sha, ‘stillness’. Elpalt’sha, elpa, elf. She knew not from whence she was born--all she remembered was opening her eyes, and there she were. Her mother of mothers, and father of fathers, and every one in between, they smiled at her and woke her up from her naked tomb with the scent of something’s fresh, beating heart.

Elpa, ‘to be still.’ ‘Alt’sl, ‘to love.’ Creations that remained static throughout their lives, whose demise comes voluntarily at the expensive of love. If one never loved, they could live forever. Fairy tales like that--Airis, in hopeless alt’sl, was a pitiful one and she understood it well. That tower was an eyesore in the landscape. It shined like jewels. A large, turquoise, wonderful jewel. She would like to live longer, really.

She disliked the way the sounds inside of her arm reverberated through the flesh and bone mechanism it was connected to. And she wished that her oculus would stay in place more times than not. And she had been hungry--starved. For a very, very long time. There is no one else’s blood that is so lovely as his. Would she be able to take back the parts of her he stole if she took his flesh for her own, and ate her fill like she had once done before?

Airis had wanted to become human, once.

But after meeting that woman. Ah. She looked to the sky and laughed.

Platinum blonde locks. Ears with pointed tips. Teeth laced with venom. Pupils with luminous sheen in a starless, city-light life full of light, night sky. She was a magical creature. Elpalt’sha.

                                          Still creature that loves itself to oblivion. Eternity-eater.

[dieve]

She made the universe revolve around her. She stood so high--and if he could, he would, be watching behind her. Like always. Stars circled around her like endless comets. Her fingertips to the sky became the worlds center. And if he could, he would, take her hair and pull it behind her. Like always.

That look in her eyes when she achieved something immense--he wished that he could see that. Amber red. Deep, crimson red. Like fire. And lightning. If he could, he would--he would watch after her for eternity.

The most inhuman human.

The image of her drove him mad inside the pearl.

[dieve]

I’m sorry.

It was a solemn smile. An oftentimes smile. A sunset, day-end, night-beginning Smile that one would expect when a great sadness occurred. She was going because she would rather shoulder it alone than let the ones she loved take her place.

What is a leader, anyways?

A good-for-nothing title. She was so silly, back then. Wanting to prove herself--and for what? That childish, lovable girl with apple-red cheeks. She was an angry little thing. She cried at everything. She yelled at everyone. And she thought that she knew so much more than she did--even when she didn’t. Even when she was so clueless. She’d been reading maps upside-down before turning them right-side up so many times... only now did she understand that no map could tell her where she was supposed to go. No map would tell her what she should do. The path that she thought was laid out so clearly in front of her began twisting and turning into a forest of winding branches and frightening forever.

She could almost laugh.

It seared her skin. it burned her eyelashes. It lit the ends of her scarlet-red like twine to dynamite. Engulfed in flames beginning from the tips of a tree’s canopy leading into the heart of everything. But her heart still beat. And her eyes could still let out tears.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

He called out her name in a muted desperation so loud, it repeated itself many times over. She wished she could apologize for more. She wished she could sit everyone down and look at them in their eyes once more. She wished she could do many things, many, many things. Like hold their hands, and give them hugs, and love them the way they loved her. She’d always faced everything at the front lines that she’d forgotten what her team looked like behind her.

What is leadership, anyways?

A title? An honor? Or is it a burden? An identity? She had let it consume her. In the end, nothing else mattered but the duty she had to the people who loved her more than her own family.. Who loved her more than her father. They loved her, and screamed for her, and cried for her--desperately so. They trusted her wordlessly--but it was not like she could hear them even if they did scream, even if they did shout, even if they did everything in their power to grab her hand and turn her back around----

... because she’d already become a distant ghost at that point.

It’s okay if she disappeared here.

She’d never fallen in love, before.

And she never did say goodbye to her younger brother.

She never told her father “I love you,” one last time.

And he never called her his daughter anyway.

She never embraced anyone for more than a few seconds.

And she never let herself cry for more than a minute, even when she really wanted to.

--------but it’s not fine.

Because she wanted to love someone in that pretty, girly way.

And she wished that she said “Goodbye” to her little brother--instead of lying to him, and telling him: “I’ll be back soon.”

She knew her father never loved her the way she wanted him to.

And the closest one to something like a father--she told him, “I hate you,” instead.

She wanted to hug them for a long time. And she wanted to cry in their arms when she was feeling sad. Shouldering it all like that--in the end, none of it really mattered.

Her body lit into flames and took everything into her. Was it magic? Or was it something else? It wrapped around her heart, her core--the warmth inside of her. Supernova. She had loved them more than anyone else and they loved her more than anything in the world.

‘Elesis! You’re staying up again?’

‘Yeah. What is it to you, anyways? Just go back to sleep. You’ve got eye boogers, it’s gross.’

‘Mmhm. I’d like to, but--the fire is a little bit bright. I’m not feeling super tired anyways,’ she muttered, yawning. The red-haired girl sighed in response.

‘Arme.... you’re not a night person. Go to sleep. I’ll rest in the morning.’

‘We’re going to be leaving in the morning. Your eyebags--they’re so gross. Go to bed, you!’--the young magician perked up. Pat-pat. She rubbed her rodent-like cheeks until they were fuzzy with warmth.

‘... You’re going to regret it, you know. Don’t start complaining about how tired you are. It’s your fault, Pipsqueak.’

‘I know! Shut up! Would it kill you to be appreciative sometimes? Even though I know you love me! Hehe.’

‘.... Whatever suits you.’

‘Good night, Elesis!’

...

...

...

Good night, yeah? Good night. Love you. Good night.

His heart beat out of his chest. It was the only thing he could hear in the light that encased them, in the booming noise that flew by his ears so quick he may as well have been deaf, ba-dum, beating.

You are like a star.

He reached his arm out far in front of her, reaching for the nothingness, reaching for anything he could grasp…

… but his lotus-petal fingers closed for the night without catching a single ray of sun.

Terror all over again. His arms fought the burning flames in an endlessly exhaustive sprint. She can’t go. She can’t disappear. She can’t–not like this. Not when everyone waited this long for her to finally turn back, to look at them, to put the radiance she always walked towards behind her–so that they could finally take a look at a face they had begun to let slip out of their minds. Out of his mind. He missed her like insanity. But it had been so strange, so sudden–he couldn’t remember her face.

His lips mouthed her name.

‘But you are like a star, you know? I want to see you shine bright one day.’

The first time and the last time. He saw her face and etched it into his mind. The silent words on her lips as she smiled–andromeda-everything smile–…

…

‘I’m sorry.’

[dieve]

His heart beat out of his chest. It was the only thing he could hear in the light that encased them, in the booming noise that flew by his ears so quick he may as well have been deaf, ba-dum, beating.

You are like a star.

He reached his arm out far in front of her, reaching for the nothingness, reaching for anything he could grasp...

... but his lotus-petal fingers closed for the night without catching a single ray of sun.

Terror all over again. His arms fought the burning flames in an endlessly exhaustive sprint. She can’t go. She can’t disappear. She can’t--not like this. Not when everyone waited this long for her to finally turn back, to look at them, to put the radiance she always walked towards behind her--so that they could finally take a look at a face they had begun to let slip out of their minds. Out of his mind. He missed her like insanity. But it had been so strange, so sudden--he couldn’t remember her face.

His lips mouthed her name.

‘But you are like a star, you know? I want to see you shine bright one day.’

The first time and the last time. He saw her face and etched it into his mind. The silent words on her lips as she smiled--andromeda-everything smile--...

...

‘I’m sorry.’

[dieve]

.... Atlas turned her head around to the sound of distant footsteps approaching her. Click, click, to the tick of a clock, closer--ringing. Reverberating.

Her dark locks slipped over her shoulder and fell down her back. Red lips moved to the phases of the moon before settling in an upward, blood-colored crescent. “.... .... ‘Cruel’? ‘Insane’? I have lived for eons. You will have to do better than that.”

The sorceress put one foot forward and spun to face her opposer. Click. “You are sorely mistaken.”

--it happened like a flash. Like the snap of a hand. The drop of ink onto the floor, metal cartridge of a fountain pen, Dust rising from the sheer force and pressure and when it ended the two halves of the wall separated. And not even a corpse remained. Atlas did not even remember its face. But still, because she was merciful, and because she was the most human out of humans, and because she was her, she stepped forward to wish its soul a farewell.

Cloth followed her body like smoke. Her dress billowed in the windless wind. Like a faeiry. Like a sylph. Like an Empress. Like Ae’rohq.  Finger to her thumb, friction and spark, she set the gruesome pool ablaze in an arrogant exorcism.

“.... There is no one in this universe with more hubris than I. But keep on trying to reach me--uniquely. Audaciously. And become angrier, more frustrated, more chained, and then when it is time--become a person more humanlike than I.”

Her nose wrinkled as she laughed.

[dieve]

[dieve]

Rust-colored skies, iron-wrought arms, emaciated skin on bones... that much is beautiful in itself. But it was the glow of desire in his aqua-everything eyes that pulled off one of the petals of the rose in her heart.

.... he looked like a child. Was it hunger? Malnourishment? Or was it sadness? Melancholy. Gangly and unnecessary. He sat there on his knees, discarded by everything that he had known. She had never seen someone so dull, so feather-like, so empty--and so full of pride. It came out like an earthquake. The lower edges of his eyes quivered though his eyelashes remained motionless. His fingers opened up its cage to the sight of the sun falling behind her. It was ugly. Immensely so. His sunken cheeks distorted to the silent cry of relief he choked out. Gasping breaths--as if he had never tasted air in his life--he heaved up and down in a tearless sobbing.

He had fought long and hard. Her eyes followed the line of her arm down to her wrist to her hand to the hilt of the sword that she gripped onto, firm. Cuts lined her flesh. Flesh that would scar. Those scars would remind both of this fateful day; for her, she would remember glory; for him, he would feel guilt. She leaned over him, her red locks of hair loose and cascading down her shoulders like the pouring of tea from a pot.

Blood-tinted fluid. Dented kettle.

... they stood there like that for a while. His sobbing. Her sword to his neck. Because it would be cruelty to let him live with the regret of his undeniable sins. Although his mind were not his, the body that housed his soul was. And that beautiful aqua-everything, and those lovely silvery locks, for those who had seen him once and watched him disappear with the souls he reaped----they would not forget. Beyond that clouded mind of his was an individual who watched himself, enjoyed himself, loved himself for it--because someone made him do it. Someone slipped into his body through those desperate gulps of air and told him: I will love you, and I will make you; you are mine. And turned his body into a cage of flesh, a moving puppet, and gloated him to kill.

The world was like sepia for him, she thought. It was probably colorless. It was probably different. He wasn’t a human like her--he was a murderer in a meat body that looked personlike. And despite those distorted screams of reprieve, of freedom, she wondered if he would fade away after having his head taken from his neck. And she wondered if he would feel at rest.

---he looked like a child. He looked younger than her, even. He had been so tall and imposing and frightening when they clashed blades. Those strong arms, in reality, were thin--like blades of grass. And that height on him, so tall that he seemed giant--looked gangly, now. Unseemly, even. But his eyes--it was his eyes. He stared up to her with those wanting eyes. Desire-filled eyes. Life-filled eyes. He neither begged her to live nor did he beg her to do away with his soul. He stared at her. Past her. Aqua-everything, cerulean-something, Ceanothus cyan Empty fields of flowers and then some Gaze was so, incredibly, lovely to her.

Enamoring, even.

.... The wind picked up as the sun kissed the horizon. Violet Indigo Orange Tangy Larkspur-colored skies and There she was, the waves of her scarlet-red hair crashing down on the landscape. Light glided on every chip down the edge of her sword as she held it to the sky.

You will become someone.

Her blade sliced through the humid air upon him... and stopped at his shoulders.

Empty blue-eyed Boy, become someone. She granted him that.

‘Lass Isolet.’

[dieve]

You make me so sweet.

Like peaches. Like roses. Like ribbons tied to twin braids down a sweet girl’s sides.

They were only children when they had met. Three comings of ages, three too-adult-for-their time, three peas in a pod--triplets who were too big for their britches. When she looked back on those bittersweet days, she only wonders if it was worth it.

But children. But youths. But perhaps it is because they were so young and grew up so quickly, that they became the women that they are today. Lire brushed through the other’s red locks, braiding them as she went. Her locks cascaded down the elf’s thighs, those wavy curtains of hers, like a sea of blood scattered across the battlefield. If Lire thought of it that way--well, it would be quite sad, no? That such beautiful red gave the impression of anything but a pink-scarlet-violet sunset setting on an the wings of a butterfly’s close. Her sleeping face was serene, Lire thought. Her uneven smattering of eyelashes on edge of her eyelids, the peachy hairs on her cheeks, the cuts on the side of her face, the bruise on her temple, the blood slipping out of her fleshy lips.

Elesis was the most beautiful when she was battle-torn, broken, worn. Such a tragedy of a person, honestly. She dipped the cotton into a mix of medicine and water before applying it again. Red turned to brown as it crawled up fluff-on-antiseptic.

“You are always so sweet on me.”

She’d been told those words the other day. So curious. Between the arguments and the annoyances, sometimes words like that would slip out. Arme was not nearly as good at hiding those slight slips of affection--but Elesis? ... it was like a torrential rain.

Every so often, that knight-girl would slip away from the group. With new companions came more frequenting away. The elf had never took the other for a solitary girl. She was feisty, and annoying, argumentative--cheerful. And tenacious. But she was good at what she did, that slipping away here and there.

It was about time to figure out what that girl was doing. For all that Lire knew, she’d be getting herself into some sort of issue. Whether it be late-night training or wandering off too far--she was so predictably unpredictable. Midst the boisterous evening jest, the elf planned to escape alongside that red-tinted rascal. She gave not a thought to how the other’s escapades had long been commonplace.

... anyone would have fallen in that instant. She thinks. Because that deep melancholy was both wonderful and worrying. It was the first time she had ever experienced a distance quite that large--a distance quite that treacherous, a distance that put someone she’d healed and held and fed and laughed with so foreign to what she had known.

Lire had thought about it before. Her and her gold--it was morning rays and sweet sunshine. And Arme’s forget-me-not, leave-me-not, wonderful lilac like the comforts of a bed at night. But she could never quite be confident in the third’s placement on the cycle of time. Brilliantly red, sufferingly red, her scarlet was unlike anything she had ever quite seen. Against the backdrop of the setting sun on that fated sundown, Lire saw a woman lovelier than the sun and lonelier than the distance between the two celestial bodies in front of them and behind them.

It was an average falling-in-love scene, she recalls.

“If only I could say something when you are awake, though.”

Singsong, like windchimes. Her sweet voice rung out and faded. They were just sounds reverberating in this room filled to the brim with window-filtered sunlight. The Red Knight quivered in her rest. Before long, she made a bit of a grunt and yawned. Grimace.

“How long were you treating me, Lire? You should...” the bed creaked as she stretched, “--take a rest. I feel great.”

“Don’t lie to me. You’re all beaten up and bloody. The porridge is cold now, but I’m sure you won’t have any trouble eating it.”

“---Eugh. Cold porridge?”

Elesis frowned. She sighed and reached over to the bowl, wincing all the while.

“You need food inside of you, you barbaran, you!”

Sheepish. And sweet. Like peaches, Like roses. Lire smiled and sighed.

“Hey, Lire--” between spoonfuls of food, “--what were you saying?”

“What do you mean, what was I saying?”

“Earlier. You said something.”

“Are you sure you’re not dreaming? I’ve been up all night, changing your bandages every hour. I am far too tired to talk to myself, lest I ask Arme to fix me up with something of hers.”

“.... .... Then maybe it was a dream.”

“If you have enough energy to dream, you have enough energy to eat,” Lire concluded before getting up from her chair. “Don’t push yourself too hard. It worries me.”

“I know.”

“And?”

“... Thank you... for always taking care of me.”

“Hehe. Always. And forever, Elesis.”

[dieve]

“Did you eat lunch yet?”

“No, not yet--”

“Then you should eat it.”

... Lass looked incredulously at the food. Soup, meat, more soup, and some bread. He looked back up at her. “... Uhm.”

If it were up to him, he could live easily (entirely) off apples, other fruits and assorted sweets & snacks. So this type of thing wasn’t necessary. At least, not in his opinion. Nonetheless, Elesis being concerned about him is more than enough... He covered his face with a wave of his hand in a poor attempt to distract from the rosy color that bloomed from his cheeks. Silver lashes fluttered softly as he blinked. “Thank y...”

“Hurry up and eat. We need to train. Your muscles will atrophy if you keep eating like a rabbit.”

“H---...”

And she was already out the door. Lass flinched as the door shut in her wake, the heavy latch clicking and locking her outside in the process. He sighed and pulled out a chair to sit in before one of their dogs was sat at his feet, looking up at him with those sweet, puppy eyes. Woof woof. Aww.

What she will not know, won’t make her mad. Right?

[dieve]

asakishi‌:

     He was semi-accustomed to her lack of personal boundaries at this point, yet the act itself still gave breath to newly reddened cheeks. Nevermind that people touching his face seemed to have an–unwanted effect on him, intentional or not. His eyebrow and eye seemed to twitch involuntarily when she grasped his chin, sinking her deeply red eyes into his brightly teals. And for a moment, one that lasts a lifetime, he was bewitched by the pair of rubies that threaten to snare his soul. It was almost paradoxical in how oddly sad and tired her eyes were, but how a glint of light seemed to flicker behind the deep red. As if there was a background life to the forefront of her red colored melancholy. To him, reflection or no, she was just. And real. 

     ‘Maybe I should actually SAY that, rather than think it.’

     A smile seemed to curl from the corners of his lips when she described her reflection, though a pebble of confusion splintered through when she noted how it looked pleasant when she looked at him. Through his eyes, she thought herself more than plain? He wondered if she was being more poetic with that, rather than purely observational. But she had released his face regardless, the cool wind caressing his chin where her rough fingers were previously. His eyes had not left her rosy face, though flickered up and down to her red hair or her finger that she motioned with to herself. For someone who claimed to be not all that deep, she had a habit of drawing him into complete silence with her views. 

     ‘A fool? Then I must be something even worse.’

     ❝I… guess it is. Thanks.❞ Finally finding his voice, a small cough made in the pause between words. The pink in his cheeks had finally faded, feeling the warmth peel away from where the chilled wind scraped against his pale cheeks. A bout of silence fluttered between them, almost picturesque where and when the icy breeze seemed to gust. And just when it settled, he found the words he wanted to speak, still looking directly at her. ❝…Is that… all you see when you look into my eyes?❞ His voice was soft, sweetly, hanging on the edge of an airy laugh. The man shook his head, long and argent tresses shifting in tandem as he stretched out one leg, arm perched on his other knee. ❝You’re more than just pretty, Elesis. There’s plenty of pretty people out there.❞ Pretty, beautiful, fair, whatever else–terms that belonged to every random stranger of pleasing manner.

     He never held much stock in that physical plane of compliments or values. It never made much sense to him in his teenage years and even less so now.

     The snow was beginning to let up, hefty falls of white now soft freckles of sparkling ice. They nearly appeared on fire where the dawn began to hit them all, scarlet shedding the falling snow. ❝You’re singular. You are real and absolute, in who you are. Set apart from everyone else.❞ His reach for her was none too fast, none too slow, picking up her closest hand in his. He moved closer to her, wood and snow crunching or creaking underneath him, splaying out her long but calloused fingers between his hands. ❝You can’t see these in my reflection. Hands that have worked, fought and bled for… probably a lot.❞ He hardly knew all of her story, nor her of his–but there was no denying the proof of her valor.

     The smile from before seemed to grow even more, kindly and confident, eyes half lidded as he looked up at the woman with endless ruby eyes. ❝You’ve a lion’s heart, full of might and valor. …and that makes you beautiful. At least, that’s what I think.❞

Hanging off every word.

Dawn’s light bounced off the edges of her eyelashes. Every blink came the gentle sparkle of a snowflake melting into dewdrops on the curtains to the show of fire behind glass. Every gust of wind took their voices away into silence. Every brief pause of someone opening the stage to another glittering sonata. She liked the way his voice sounded. Listening, yet the words went through her ear and its meaning fell through the other, leaving only the melody of it behind. She liked the way he sounded a lot.

‘Is that all you see? When you look into my eyes.’

His voice mixed with hers. With one million things buzzing through her mind, it was as though that lovely voice of his bled into her own rough. Soft and sweetly, laughing. And pretty. Is that all she saw when she looked into his eyes? She cannot see anything beyond those eyes. She was not good at that sort of things. But his voice—-she concluded—his voice—-was just as lovely. She listened to him sing to her, half her head back home and the other half of her soul on a rooftop covered in the tangerine and topaz of spring months away, a preview in the snow of what the colors would be when she blinks in between breaths and opens her eyes…

She stared at their linked fingers before pulling herself away, the tips of her fingers hanging off his, forever for each second.

“…. My hands bleed ugly because I am not liken to girlish loving, my hands. And my lion’s heart has such an appetite; I eat might and valor like a meal.”

For her, who he spoke like a poet to, she could not believe it so. “’Might and valor’. I don’t dislike it.”—-roughly. Her voice was clear as a bell’s ring. Deep like steps into an overgrown meadow, bare feet sinking, wet toes tickled and dew dancing at the soles of feet. She watched him for a bit, staring at where red met purple, where the rays of light danced off his periwinkle and colored him pastels. Chills like a peppermint. Sweet like a candy cane. Winter wandering became a place like home when she looked at someone who saw her, perhaps, mayhaps, a friend.

“You think too much. Don’t think. You talk too much. But do not stop talking, I like it.”

Thinking of herself as plain. If the sun made dewdrops like crystals in the ground, then picture those crystals hanging like teardrop rain off shoulders gilded in silver. A dress made up of plates of armor. Boots up until her ankles, with stockings folded over ribbons under her knees. You’re beautiful, so lovely as a bumpkin girl whose name sounded like love to squires and earls, faces & names a blur, voices like sword ringing off of stone. Real and absolute. To the girl that looked at the people she loved and yelled upon days and days, argued with the basics and pointed at the horizon without dark nights in her mind. To the lady in the cape with red hair, scarlet so feverish, like influenza midst sleep. To the woman who took the crystals of her girlhood and set them under her eyes as she set to sleep the image of a father and woke up to the reality of a broad back, scar down the back, walking away. Real and true. What cerulean his eyes were, she saw a rainbow of colors through the blue color of his rain. And she liked it a lot. She remembered when Arme pointed at a rainbow, at the ravine between two kingdoms, the way Lire smiled before covering her eyes from the sun with her hand. It was like that.

She liked being beautiful in his thoughts. Away and unknown. Her goddesses and deities, her language and songs, her prism-colored sight of Kanavan like a distant dream in her memories. Recurring, oft when twilight sets, when the evening becomes dotted in stars and she can think for those belovéd thirty seconds until night bites her fingers cold. She likes being beautiful in his thoughts, where hardship and the sound of her weak tears, he did not know. Nor would she bear to let him know. Because she knew she would forget it all the same, forget it all the same, when she took a step into a world forever spring and left his beautiful winter behind.

And he would forget her, too.

So, to stay a beautiful memory, ‘valor and might’…—-she did not dislike it.

Elesis smiled a strained smile. Mechanical. The upturn of her lips gave way to something more relaxed—-rehearsed. Sighing the millionth sigh, she watched as the cloud of happiness fizzled out in front of her as the puff of her breath cut through Golden Hour’s line of sight. And back again. “I can look at you and tell,” she began, looking at him a bit more carefully this time, “… that you use hand cream.”

She held out that same hand he held so lovely and stretched out her fingers. Cracked and dry, her palms. Covered in dirty snow and topaz & opal sparkles all over. “So your sight is as soft as your hands, as soft as your head, as soft as your heart. Do not think. Not even about using lotion. It is a waste of time.”

Enjoy time as it is. Don’t think. Just jump. That feeling lasts forever. She got up and brushed whatever stuck to her bottom. White blouse, an outline of her body in the sun. Proud and loud, she took a step forward into whatever warmth this same old sun would give to her. Body outlined in bleeding, sanguine red, from the broad of her shoulders to the outline of her breasts to her waist down her back. To the scar that went from shoulder to end, scratching, scraping, fingernails down a chalkboard, glass to screams and screaming to shame, from her shoulder to the end of her back. An Andromeda surrounded by stars; galaxy of scars shielding her heart.

Vermilion seconds. Her hair cascaded into waves as the gust of wind passed, crashing onto her back and flowing out, back to sea.

Without worry to notice the T H I N G digging into a past still bloody and dripping fresh, she turned around and looked at him, having stretched out and relaxed. “The innkeeper probably thinks we are dead. After all, everyone else is. Let’s go back. Riku.”

[dieve]

There were only so many strings that he could grasp.

I like you.

Words like those were something he found impossible to utter. Factual statements that ring ever so true were the hardest for him to say. From the beginning to the middle to the end, all he could do was hold on tightly to that slippery string that, no matter how many times he wrapped it around his wrist, found its way in the distance as he chased after its impression.

She was that kind of person, after all. Endlessly loved, and endlessly far. In this white space of a dream he fell into every so often, she flickered and burned faintly through the sound of static clouding his mind.

“Why do you keep going on?”

... Bonfire crackles. And the smell of charcoal. How old were they back then? Years that passed on in the midst of this ideal forever. “Why do you keep going on?” he had asked her, that day. Elesis Sieghart. Ruby Knight. Leader. She laughed as loud as she cried, she screamed as loud as the sizzle of her fire, she was strong like a large animal. She was soft. And protective. And through the arguments and the conflicts, the childish fighting and petty drama--she was there like no other. His dug the pads of his fingers into the cold bark.

“What kind of a question is that, Lass?” a domineering tone. She was teasing him.

“.... .... Who knows?”--quiet and brooding. After all, that is how they were, back then.

“You’re always going ‘round and ‘round with vague questions like that. Do you want my answer? I’m sure you can figure out why on your own, though.”

“...”

He remembers her looking at him for a split second. Red eyes met his. Cerulean flame; he remembered the way it felt in the apples of his cheeks to the quiver of his lashes. And he remembered tearing his gaze away from hers. She wore her hair in a long braid, then. A braid that looped up back to her head. She was pretty from the beginning. A girlish style that stood at odds with her boyish quirks. A pretty length that looked like curtains of fire or liquid gemstones when she walked. The first thing that he saw when he opened his eyes for the first time: that red, scarlet red, endless sunset sky, her.

“You are like a star,” she called out, motioning to the stars upon stars that extended far past the tree that he had escaped into. He blinked at her in confusion, then furrowed his eyebrows. “But you’re shy. Aren’t you? With that gloomy look and quiet voice. But you are like a star. In Kanavan, I never saw stars like this. There were clouds everywhere--or fog. Or something like that. Clear nights like this came rarely and were brief. But when they did, and the clouds split apart, you could see stars even brighter than right now.”

... He listened solemnly, not truly understanding at the time. Talk about stars and things beyond what could be seen--he did not understand it at all. Nor did he understand her. Because how could she be so different? From the daytime to the night time, like a flower that only bloomed in the moon. They had talks like this every once in a while. She talked to him, and he listened to her. Mindlessly rambling. Eloquently saying things. “But you are like a star, you know? I want to see you shine brightly one day.”

“What are you talking about, Leader? ... You are too roundabout for me.”

“You wanted me to answer your question, right?”

“And you still haven’t.”

“I did, though!”--and he caught the sight of her in the corner of his eyes again. An unforgettable color. An endless red. A horizon that looked further out than an archer’s vision. A fire more powerful, and more beautiful, than a flame any magician can conjure. A passionately burning soul to melt his heart’s permafrost--and like that, all over again. She was further away from her by another one hundred steps.

Once-in-a-lifetime, unique, rare--special and bizarre--a comet once every two-hundred years. A volcano eruption once every thousand years. The extinction of humans as they knew it. The introduction of demons through mirrors that reflected a world dyed in absinthe and amaranth hues. If he were to describe her, she would be something like that. That is what he thought, in that moment, in the crescent of her smile and the billowing wind through that wispy red that framed her expression in his memories.

Like a star. Brightly. And lovely. Like a star. Wonderfully, and gently. A guide in the night, always watching. When Elesis thought of him, she thought of that: a brilliant light that comforted her through the dreary nights and endless daytime. Vague and roundabout, Elesis never bothered to explain her strangeities nor her quirks nor anything else about her she bothered to ponder on about. The thousands of things in her mind, and the space that had “Lass Isolet” occupying it was as such. Her wonderful companions whose existences she wished to continue to the end of their days--...

Naturally. With or without her. And without her, that was fine by her.

....

It was that kind of smile. That kind of brilliantly sad, wonderful smile. It was that kind of flame in her eyes--the kind that burned so brilliantly, so pretty, that it lasted only a few seconds before it fizzled out into smoke in the night. He did not understand it at that time, that elegiac smile. It was the ignorance of youth. It was the missing pieces of emotions that he could not understand. It was many different things, like hand-painted glass shards all mending and breaking at once, to where he did not even know the meaning of the words said to him, he was so quite back then.

Fire fades when stifled under stale air. But a star shines brightly forever, infinite in its finite life. Its forever-glow. Its death by something someday, its glorious supernova and it’s tragic ending reprise. Lass Isolet was like a wonderful, big, shimmering, beautiful star that would fade long after she burned out. That was the kind of vision she had of him.

He chased after her in silence. Just one gaze back at him was enough. Just one second to make sure he was there behind her. Just one look to know that the strings he had been following truly led back to her--if the strings led back to that same unknown smile she had given him that night. That night in which they were both still children. But for every centimetre of thread he coiled around his body, she kept endlessly moving forward.

He loved her like crazy. The tragically lonely her embedded itself into his inspirations of an endless sunset sky, with him next to her, her next to him, smiling at one another doubtlessly.

[dieve]

𝟘𝟛. Useless pieces of ivory.

To be seen, to be touched, to put the cold to his face--he couldn’t get enough. Purely ornamental. Rare, wonderful. She was like useless pieces of ivory set for him to make into whatever he liked, however he liked.

Opaque, understandable, organic, ivory. She was supposed to be his queen consort. His symbolic shards of white... where had she gone? When he held her, she made his skin tingle like the taste of mint. When he weft his fingers through her hair, the strands parted gently, like milk pouring out of a pitcher. Cascading. Cascading down and down, further into this strange fixation he fell. Yvette, where was she?

Where had she gone?