Youth Without Youth // Libertine Blitz

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L△LIA
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Youth Without Youth // Libertine Blitz Jan 6, 2013 1:55:05 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Jan 6, 2013 1:55:05 GMT -5

( H A R P E R K E L L A N L I B E R T I N E )

Hangman
We played
Blind man's bluff
Until they stopped
The game

You can't tell if the air is silent or if you've gone deaf. One is as feasible as the other in a moment like this, your sister's casket laying on the floor of the pawn shop as if her bones were just another unloved trinket itching to be placed upon a shelf, the promise of a second chance at life existing in tandem with the prospect of profit. There are two awful truths sinking heavy within you at the idea of this. First is that these thoughts are far more fact than fiction. Second is that you know this because this is not the first time you have contemplated these things.

The inevitability of today had you wondering if maybe it would hurt less, because this time you knew what was coming. The wait for Penelope's body was a series of unknowns, but now you Libertines are old hands at losing loved ones. Learna's wooden box is simple and nondescript, just as you knew it would be, and the dull THUD it made as it was set down was exactly as cruel as expected. The sound echoed like her memory in your empty chest and that was when you shed your doubts and accepted that, no, you idiot, it doesn't hurt any less.

Youth without youth
Born without time
Youth without youth
Can you
Read my mind?

(OOC — I vote we ignore posting order, as I have work in the morning and won't be back until the afternoon.)

Last Edit: Jan 6, 2013 1:58:36 GMT -5 by L△LIA

( C H A R A C T E R S )

meg.
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Youth Without Youth // Libertine Blitz Jan 6, 2013 2:32:29 GMT -5

Post by meg. on Jan 6, 2013 2:32:29 GMT -5

And I look at you, and I see me,
Making noise so restlessly,
But now it's quiet and I can hear you sing,

[/color]
'My little fish don't cry, my little fish don't cry.' [/size]

KIPLING LIBERTINE

[/center][/size][/right]

Many boxes have come in and out of the shop in my life. Some are big; wardrobes and cupboards with names and dates carved quietly in their corners, and some are very small, to hold a pair of earrings, or the lost molar of a child. Some are not worth much, produced cheaply by labourers in far-off districts, or thrown together quickly by a father supervising his son’s first project. Some are expensive, use antique ivory with a mother of pearl inlay, caught by a traveller and sold to a craftsman to make a Christmas present for his mother. I watch them come and go, change hands and change stories, be given a new life.

Yet, this box will not know new life. This box, dark-wooded and sitting on our dining room table around which we are gathered, has no story, yet contains one of the most brilliant of tales. This box has been cut down by faceless workers, pieced together with machines, brought to its destination by ghosts; so unlike the tenderly-raised, much loved girl whose corpse it holds.

And now it will be put in the ground. It will not have the new story that is given to all the other boxes that come into our shop. Neither will the body inside it. Once we put this box in the ground, Learna’s story will end.

I’d give up all my stories to keep this one going.

Autumn leaves under frozen souls,
Hungry hands turning soft and old,
My hero cried as we stood out there in the cold,

[/color]
Like these autumn leaves I don't have nothing to hold. [/CENTER] [/size][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Jan 13, 2013 2:47:25 GMT -5 by meg.

L△LIA
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Youth Without Youth // Libertine Blitz Jan 6, 2013 22:36:44 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Jan 6, 2013 22:36:44 GMT -5

( H A R P E R K E L L A N L I B E R T I N E )

Is it your fault?
You, you're sinking, so they say
You, you're finished, so they say
You, you're buried, so they say
You, a killer killing fate

It is not necessarily an urge to comfort your littlest brother that sends your hands reaching for Kipling, gently tugging him back from Learna's coffin to lean against your much taller frame as you distractedly tangle your fingers in the dark tufts of his hair. Honestly, you probably need him more than he needs you right now. Your fidgeting hands are practically begging him for reassurance that he is still there, a fragile heartbeat and a stuttering breath. Kip has the longest to wait for safety — for himself and all of your remaining siblings. At this rate, who's to say if either of you will see the day when Kipling Libertine will have nothing left to fear. That seems impossible today.

When you try to speak, it comes out as a hollow gasp of silent air, soaring over your little brother's head to tumble into non-existence somewhere above Learna's bones. You fall perfectly still in response, desperate to deny the sorrow caged in your chest, because discomposure is not something you're familiar with. The way knowing gnaws at you from the inside out, dissolving your tongue and spreading through your bloodstream until even your kneecaps are numb... you are someone who strives for complete composure and this helplessness is beyond debilitating.