quiet hours, turning to years | ronan/cynthia

r o n a n
d u b o i s

♔

(You'd prayed to me once-
In a renounced dream
Stitched back up
Right along your seams

A kingdom awaited-
For your longing return
Who could've guessed-
Instead, you chose to burn)

A crown made of both silvers and golds, adorned in gleaming, crystalline gems, diamonds, and blood red rubies. Eroding to a rustic orange-tinted brown, the chipping of metal rubbed off along the pale soul- ghost- of a girl who was deemed the queen of the damned. It was bloody hand prints that wrote the contemporary testament over the old that remained impaired, mutilated beyond recognition. Signing off the remaining note of her destined will upon death, Margaret had marked and burned her blood as an oath into the purity of snow disfigured at her cursed, crimson finger tips.


It was written in stone, a tomb of the girl who was no longer buried six feet under- though, she was still falling to her throne. It was like charcoal to a pale surface, the remnants scattered off easily and marks were left in similar features to the once damned- twice damned. For a name had been copied, cut and stitched into one like yet another thrown together patchwork, and it was then we'd became bounded. Buried half deep in a foot of snow, coating the ground in a silken white blanket of a freezing coldness that shivered even the knives that'd replaced my bones. A gold and silver crown held at the tips of my fingers, it was placed upon my head when taking my final seating on a throne sculptured of marble and stone. ("Ronan DuBois, Margaret is on her way.")


Petal upon petal of a black and white stained rose, they were falling to my feet, and the vines grew in place through my aching veins. ("I couldn't choose between the black, and the white- so I chose both.") Thorns pricked at my flesh beneath my stone skin, and perhaps it'd always been true, that flowers grow in even the places they aren't meant to. Velvet tops kissed the surface, and I'd made sure to leave them tinted red with a slit of the skin and a stream of gold laced crimson that dripped from beneath.


Words to be wielded and sharpened to a point, the sword is my weapon and it is meant to kill. Honing my tone and words to slice a clean cut into, not only the cold, frosted air that pales each breath, but the mind of a girl who'd reached for a specter- a phantom. Foolish girl, how she wishes to contact the dead, the one's walking among the living, but only meet such a determination, and it clashes with disappointment. I can sense the blood running deep between her poisoned veins, she is from a kind like mine, but we are not equals- we are not the same.

"My name is Cynthia Summit,
I'm just like you-"

A sickening temptation to cut her words where she stands, for though she may feel a similar pain- we are not alike. I continually roam the streets dancing in alleyways, while she lives deep inside the heart of a mansion, where the corridors aren't still with the lack of forsaken souls.

"Our loved ones are dead men
and we are dead men walking."

Save me the seconds- minutes- hours- at all the times I have heard a single derived version of famous last words that marked the hearts, minds, and souls of District Seven's for the hundreds of years to come. Etched into the back seat of my marble and stone throne, it was engraved as a header as a reminder of the heir to her throne. ("Enjoy your time living in a world of dead men walking, Katelyn Persimmon.")


One by one the words printed themselves into existence and laid their final mark in blood as an axe slit deep into Margaret's chest. Katelyn was a wretched girl, a lowly one who only achieved freezing over the girl whose heartbeat had once come back into existence. A living girl walking upon the corpses of those who'd fallen for her reign, but it was unlikely she'd see that she was never fit for the throne. The queen of the damned passed her crown rightfully over, and pressed it into my finger tips where the silvers and golds returned to their place, and the terrestrial throne became my home.

"You're a DuBois, no mistake.
But what is your first name?"

And there it goes again-
DuBois- a word with no legitimate meaning. Holding memories of a dead girl who now resides in her own Hell, it is only simple stitched together work, a last put to the first to fill an empty space.

"Abrasive."

Consideration became her mask at my word, the only one spoken, though it wasn't in context of her question. Margaret had made her statement by slaying Wyatt Manderson, who made his statements far before. Perhaps it's time to make my many statements, starting with number one.

"Ronan-

Ronan D-

(But what follows it-

Means nothing at all.)"

There was a slight hesitation and I watched the ice air fill with pale, quick breaths. ("It's Margaret DuBois- But I'd prefer just Margaret.")

"DuBois.

(But I'd prefer-)

We may be alike-

But we are not the same.

(We are dead men walking)

Mara's final words will not go in vain."

There was an exhale of a steamy passion, fire escaped my throat, burning each chill in the open air. 

{ graphics: rook }