#― ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ғᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ . the asynhur indobouris multiverse .

[asynjja]

i   thought   i   must   have   loved   you   in   a   life   before   this   one,   already.

[asynjja]

perhaps   if   she   digs   open   his   grave,   he   too   will   remember.    @arzhur

[asynjja]

@arzhur​   said,   “   Value   loyalty   above   all   else.   ”

                    𝐈𝐓   𝐈𝐒   𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐇𝐎𝐖   𝐀   𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄   𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄   𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐃   𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃   𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄   𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄   𝐒𝐎   𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐘;   the   great   halls   of   Camelot,   its   streets   with   their   eager   inhabitants,   and   the   sight   that   unravels   at   dawn   when   she   rises   –   it   feels   so   DIFFERENT   than   what   it   used   to   be.   The   absence   of   dragons   that   skim   across   the   sky   leaves   a   heart   reluctant   to   trust   the   future   that   might   come,   but   the   forests   with   their   emerald   crowns   remain   the   same,   standing   with   PERSEVERANCE   against   the   change   of   time.   At   times,   she   feels   like   she   KNOWS   Albion.   But   that   cannot   be:   if   she   knows   it   then   she   does   so   only   through   the   eyes   of   the   king   and   by   his   words.   When   he   talks   about   his   people,   she   becomes   HUMBLE,   as   humble   as   she   used   to   feel   when   she   was   younger.   Wide-eyed   and   with   an   unquenchable   thirst   to   discover   what   hid   underneath   the   auburn   skin   of   the   earth,   she   used   to   believe   the   universe   held   many   more   ENTICING   secrets   than   it   did   daunting   ones.   He   rekindles   that   curiosity,   even   if   it   remains   hesitant.   How   he   does   it   or   why,   she   does   not   want   to   question.   Mostly,   out   of   fear   that   knowing   his   reasons   and   methods   could   DISENCHANT   the   sway   he   holds   over   her. 

Arthur   Pendragon   is   a   concept,   an   enigma;   whenever   he   rises   onto   his   feet,   the   earth   SHIFTS   a   little   although   anticipating   the   steps   he   may   take   and   their   consequences.   And   she   is   certain,   since   knowing   him   more   so   than   ever   before,   that   life   follows   a   GUIDELINE   and   that   all   possible   endings   are   predicted   if   not   yet   defined.   This   life   is   a   short   one,   she   sees   it   whenever   she   looks   into   his   eyes.   Skuld   stares   back   with   eyes   not   much   older   than   his   and   no   visible   wrinkles   on   her   fatigued   features   –   Arthur   Pendragon   dies   YOUNG.   Where   he   does,   she   does   not   know   but   that   he   will,   is   certain.   It   changes   her,   changes   every   word   she   speaks   to   him.   The   few   nights   that   he   spends   with   her   when   his   time   allows,   she   quenches   the   premonition   in   whatever   way   she   finds   suitable.   His   chest   rises   and   sinks   in   his   sleep   like   the   ebb   and   flow   of   the   ocean,   a   REASSURING   image   that   comes   back   to   mind   whenever   charcoal   eyes   cast   their   gaze   across   the   lands   of   Camelot.   Somewhere   out   there,   where   lands   kiss   the   water,   his   chest   rises   and   sinks   evermore   and   her   inability   to   talk   about   the   dread   that   fills   her   whenever   she   looks   at   him   becomes   INSIGNIFICANT.   She   knows   the   ocean,   knows   her   tides   and   her   depths   and   in   the   dark,   she   even   knows   her   whispers   like   she   knows   HIS.   

Tongue   could   not   have   verbalised   her   emotions   even   if   she   wanted   to.   Returning   home   from   work   and   falling   into   the   arms   of   the   two   men   that   have   loved   her   despite   the   consequences   of   doing   so,   should   REASSURE   a   mind   that   she   perhaps   merely   overacts.   It   doesn’t.   Neither   Kua   nor   Willem   can   understand   what   it   must   be   like   to   predict   a   fate   outside   one’s   own   reach,   how   it   makes   you   wonder   if   enough   love   could   make   you   blind   and   FORGET.   So   she   dwells   on   it   on   her   own   as   Camelot   continues   its   hustle   and   bustle.   The   emerald   crowns   of   the   trees   beyond   the   walls   of   the   kingdom   will   remain   persistent   then   also,   when   Arthur   has   died   and   she   has   withered.   Perhaps   they   will   MOURN   at   least   in   her   imagination,   taking   back   what   once   was   theirs   and   leaving   behind   something   to   remember.   Fingertips   yearn   to   take   a   little   of   the   soil   with   her,   to   incorporate   it   into   her   veins   and   to   memorise   the   effort   made   to   bring   back   what   Albion   had   lost   under   tyranny.   But   no   king   dies   innocent;   if   she   wants   to   remember   Arthur   Pendragon,   she   wants   to   remember   him   as   he   is   NOW   –   watching   her   from   the   entrance   to   the   room,   curious,   courageous,   a   man   who   makes   no   time   for   her   when   his   people   need   him   more.   That   man,   she   LOVES.   Perhaps   he   dies   before   she   can   grow   to   hate   him,   or   perhaps   he   dies   before   he   can   grow   to   hate   HER.   

A   smile   masks   the   troublesome   pondering   when   she   catches   his   gaze.   She   dissolves   her   figure   from   the   windowsill,   posture   meticulously   calculated.   The   castle   is   no   safe   haven   and   perhaps   never   will   be   –   but   at   times,   she   yearns   to   feel   what   it   must   be   like   to   LIVE   with   him.   He   is   the   king,   a   lover,   but   she   lacks   the   right   proximity   to   call   him   a   friend.   And   that   the   love   is   MUTUAL,   of   course,   cannot   be   shown.   Feet   settle   for   a   comfortable   pace,   the   unspoken   warning   that   he   only   has   a   little   time   for   a   very   short   walk   is   absolutely   clear.   Still,   he   could   have   spent   his   limited   time   in   any   other   way   and   she   appreciates   every   brief   conversation   they   hold.

“   Sir   Gwaine   entertained   me   earlier   this   day   with   a   story   from   when   he   lived   as   a   vagabond,   ”   she   begins,   mouth   already   CURVED   with   the   implication   of   a   smirk.   He   raises   his   brows   in   expectation.   “   It   surprises   me   you   picked   him   to   become   part   of   the   round   table   –   even   now,   he   still   exhibits   certain   characteristics   that   only   a   man   of   rogue   honour   has.   ”   The   joke   falls   flat,   though   she   takes   no   offense;   the   crown   is   a   heavy   burden   and   one   she   is   fortunate   to   have   AVOIDED   throughout   all   her   life.   She   would   not   want   to   marry   Arthur   Pendragon,   either.   It   does   not   matter   how   much   she   loves   him,   does   not   matter   how   meticulously   well   she   knows   his   expressions   –   and   when   his   frown   is   a   mere   HABIT   and   not   a   manifestation   of   his   thoughts.   She   was   not   born   to   be   queen.   Many   other   women   fulfil   the   role   much   better   than   she   ever   could.   It   is   in   ARTHUR’S   responsibility   to   be   just,   it   is   not   in   hers.   She   has   no   qualms   about   refusing   to   aid   whomever   she   dislikes   and   had   Arthur   not   somehow   pulled   her   into   his   grasp,   she   perhaps   would   not   have   followed   him,   not   even   AFTER   he’d   proven   his   loyalty   to   the   people.   

Life   is   fleeting   and   a   lifetime   of   suffering   occasionally   makes   one   SELFISH.   She   aids   the   sick   because   she   finds   a   purpose   in   it,   and   the   same   purpose   she   used   to   find   in   WAR.   Allowing   her   the   power   to   make   decisions   would   not   end   well   for   Camelot.   HIM,   she   could   give   a   life   of   abundance,   a   life   of   adventure   and   carelessness   –   and   perhaps,   had   she   met   him   at   any   other   point   in   life,   perhaps   he   could   have   been   successfully   MOULDED   into   a   man   willing   to   entertain   a   life   like   the   that.   But   the   man   she   fell   in   love   with   looks   at   her   pensively   and   then   he   utters   with   knitted   brows,   “   Value   loyalty   above   all   else.   However   rogue   his   demeanour   might   be,   Sir   Gwaine   saved   my   life   more   than   once.   ”

A   GRIN   follows   the   his   word’s   of   honest   admiration.   She   once   knew   the   way   that   his   mother   looked   at   his   father.   She   never   mentions   it   –   the   wound   of   losing   a   beloved   parent   hardly   ever   heals.   She   knows   it   HERSELF.   In   every   life   she   lives,   she   loses   her   mother   and   her   father   hardly   ever   even   knows   of   her   birth.   But   the   way   Ygraine   de   Bois   looked   at   Uther   Pendragon   even   before   his   appointment   of   Camelot’s   king,   she   REMEMBERS   and   occasionally,   when   the   mirror   reflects   her   weary   expression   in   passing,   she   catches   herself   regarding   Arthur   with   almost   the   same   RAPTURE.   This   time,   is   one   of   those   occasions.   But   in   one   thing,   she   was   wrong;   the   devotion   he   pours   into   the   life   of   his   people,   it   is   not   UTHER’S.   His   father   wanted   a   son   so   desperately   and   was   so   blinded   by   the   loss   of   his   wife   that   he   forgot   he’d   never   truly   LOST   her   in   the   first   place.

The   sun   tickles   upon   pale   olive   skin   when   the   walls   of   the   castle   are   finally   left   behind.   She   halts,   turns   to   her   king.   The   sheer   fabric   that   covers   dark   waves   of   hair   trembles   uneasily   in   a   brief   draught   of   wind   as   brows   furrow   and   a   FROWN   replaces   the   light-hearted   expression.   “   I   used   to   think   true   loyalty   was   a   lie   –   and   any   cheap   imitation   of   it,   bought   and   not   freely   given.   ”   The   smile   that   she   dons   is   dishonest   and   BLAND,   charcoal   eyes   stare   at   him   with   some   kind   of   affliction.   That   she   lowers   her   gaze,   she   only   does   to   avoid   the   EMBARRASSMENT   that   comes   with   having   been   proven   wrong.   “   Should   there   ever   come   a   time   where   I   harbour   the   same   erroneous   presumption,   remind   me   of   your   words.   ”   

                                            —   𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍   𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒   𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑,   𝐇𝐄   𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒   𝐒𝐎   𝐔𝐍𝐁𝐄𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒𝐓   𝐓𝐎   𝐇𝐈𝐌.   She   lingers   in   the   lecture   hall   after   his   presentation’s   ending,   a   grin   on   her   lips   and   with   the   last   slide   still   projected   onto   the   screen.   “   However   rogue   his   honour   might   have   been,   Sir   Gwaine   saved   his   king’s   life   more   than   once,   hm?   ”   James   Pendragon   looks   up,   features   expressing   a   slight   semblance   of   CONFUSION   as   though   he   attempts   to   unravel   the   familiarity   of   the   sentence.   But   the   moment   she   believes   to   see   recognition   in   far   too   acquainted   eyes,   he   shakes   it   OFF.   Her   grin   remains;   the   emerald   crowns   of   trees   have   persisted   against   history’s   transience   and   the   ocean   still   ebbs   and   flows   as   though   it   REMEMBERS.   Perhaps   if   she   digs   open   his   grave,   he   will   too.

                    It’s   the   first   time   she   ever   invites   him   to   a   coffee.

[asynjja]

@urobouris​   said :   “   Thought   you   may   like   this.   ”   And   he   proffers   an   ornate,   gilded   knife,   restored   from   a   terrible   state.   Its   age   is   apparent   despite   its   hilt   being   encrusted   with   rubies.   It’s   his   way   of   wishing   Moa   a   happy   birthday.   ―   birthday   wishes .   no   longer   accepting .

                    𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐒   𝐎𝐍𝐄   𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃   𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊   𝐈𝐓’𝐒   𝐀   𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄   𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓 ;     all   women   like   jewels   set   in   gold,     embellished   and   polished   and   ready   to   be   shown   off   for   the   world   to   see   but …     Albert   knows   her   BETTER   than   that.     She   is   a   handful   to   deal   with,     constantly   on   edge   and   far   too   disobedient   when   faced   with   orders   that   seem   illogical   or   not   PRODUCTIVE   enough.     But   he   sees   through   it   and   whatever   it   might   be,     it   always   works   out.     Pale - olive   fingers   wrap   around   the   handle   of   the   knife   as   soon   as   it   is   offered  ,   the   way   that   charcoal   eyes   look   up   at   him   and   the   way   that   lips   curl   equally   as   much   ――     her   expression   betrays   her,     if   she   can   even   CALL   it   betrayal.   

He   is   one   of   the   few   people   alive   that   KNOWS   the   majority   of   her   secrets   and   whom   she   trusts   enough   to   take   them   to   the   GRAVE.     The   knife   weighs   heavy   in   her   palm,     comfortable   and   cool ;     thumb   brushes   across   its   surface   momentarily   before   she   swings   it   around   fingertips,     blade   DANCING   effortlessly   through   her   grasps   ―――     every   once   in   a   while,     she   thinks   she   must   have   KNOWN   him.     The   way   she   loves   him,     the   way   she   trusts   him     ――     and   family   is   not   just   defined   by   BLOOD,     she   knows,     but   when   knife   lands   securely   in   and   open   palm   again   and   eyes   catch   his   EXPECTANT   expression,     she   cannot   imagine   a   life   without   him   as   her   brother.     It   must   have   been   lonely,     not   having   someone   who’d   pick   a   terribly   RUSTED   and   DIRTY   piece   of   weaponry   and   return   it   to   its   VIRGIN   STATE.

                                                        He’s   done   it   with   her.     Somehow,     anyhow   ――――     made   her   feel   YOUNG   again.

“   It’s   beautiful,   ”     she   says   in   response.     Knows   exactly   where   she’ll   put   in   in   her   collection   and   considers   to   maybe   even   USE   it   for   the   next   blót.     It’s   sharp   to   the   touch,     wouldn’t   have   expected   anything   else,     and   she   drops   the   hand   holding   the   knife   safely   to   her   side   before   WRAPPING   a   free   arm   around   Albert’s   neck   and   pulling   him   into   an   EMBRACE.     Figure   rises   onto   her   toes,     she   should   have   perhaps   donned   high   heels   for   once   but   they’re   so   IMPRACTICAL   ―――     and   he’ll   have   to   FORGIVE   her   for   forcing   him   to   bend   down   a   little,     make   himself   smaller   to   return   the   embrace.     It’s   the   curse   of   being   the   OLDER   sibling,     she’d   joke   in   any   other   situation ;     you’re   always   smaller   than   the   younger   one,     always   the   prototype.

Cool   palm   stays   on   a   cheek   momentarily   when   she   withdraws.     The   smile   on   her   lips   in   genuine   and   WARM.     “   Thank   you.   Not   just   for   this   ―――     for   everything.   ”     There   is   a   certain   VULNERABILITY   of   the   utterance   that   only   the   right   language   can   convey   and   it’s   no   secret   that   in   private   conversations   with   either   Albert   or   Willem,     voice   slips   into   German   and   EFFORTLESSLY,     accent-freely   so   but …     here   it   feels   RIGHT.     Like   it   makes   it   more   personal   without   having   to   speak   many   more   words ;     she’s   never   been   GOOD   at   it,     anyway.     Conveying   emotion,     admitting   affection.     Learning   all   languages   of   the   world   changes   little   about   the   difficulty   that   tearing   down   thick   WALLS   entails ;     she   prides   herself   to   be   rational   on   most   days   and   angry   on   a   few.     But   underneath   professionalism   and   rage,     she’s   still   just   a   WOMAN.

                                                          And   he   means   so   much.

                    Fingertips   let   go   of   his   cheek   and   drop   to   her   side.     She   still   GRINS,     exhales   a   laughter - laced   breath   of   air.     “   You   know   me,     and   you   don’t   hate   me   for   it.     And   you   know …     this …     Red,     Tom,     James   ―――――     I   don’t   think   I’d   ever   have   this   many   friends   without   you,     Albert.   Never   did.   ”