heaven is a junkyard — vin & arcadia
Oct 28, 2023 14:42:29 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Oct 28, 2023 14:42:29 GMT -5
❦
he speaks. and burns through each shadow, each feather, each bone. Roe roars like a flame, bright and burning. i follow, through the dismal omens, lakes dragging through bodies, until the sound quiets. until i am alone.
we enter the interview hall, cavernous and velvet.
Roe disappears to a room behind the veil. i step through the aisles of seats, like little boulders over a landscape.
the fabric draped over my shoulders, pale blue and refracting, shallow water in sunlight. his name was Caesar. he had a smiling face, funny stiffness in each expression i could not understand. i looked away, to the rolling waves of a crowd, the birds soaring overhead, and listened.
he’d leaned in and asked,
what is it that you'll be fighting for in that arena – that you want to get back home to?
i know.
i had an answer rotting on my tongue, i think. i was made to bear it. what it feels like to be filled with the shards of faith. what it feels like to know, buried in my chest, pieces stuck in me as sharp as a knife.
it didn't come out right.
i whispered Sindri when i meant to say honour.
once is enough. twice is irreverent.
i know.
the hall echoes, now emptied of people. there are strands of loose conversation in the flutter of the curtains. my head feels heavy still, but the ringing mellowed with time, the taste of bitter willow chewed between teeth. my fox, silent, follows after me and glows bright.
she is there too, perched like a bird in a dream, at the edge of the stage. i remember now. in my room, the smell of grapes, the television.
"Arcadia."
in my hand, i hold up the watch, magnetic pieces of stone, the screen flickering. everyone you kiss dies. in stórráða.
"you called." her skin burns red, little wounds splattered across her. close enough, i touch her hand. then, meet her gaze in the warmth of it. this may someday be your death. i pull away.
i remember the length of leather, curled in my bag. they'd call her in stórráða.
"you're alive."
we enter the interview hall, cavernous and velvet.
Roe disappears to a room behind the veil. i step through the aisles of seats, like little boulders over a landscape.
the fabric draped over my shoulders, pale blue and refracting, shallow water in sunlight. his name was Caesar. he had a smiling face, funny stiffness in each expression i could not understand. i looked away, to the rolling waves of a crowd, the birds soaring overhead, and listened.
he’d leaned in and asked,
what is it that you'll be fighting for in that arena – that you want to get back home to?
i know.
i had an answer rotting on my tongue, i think. i was made to bear it. what it feels like to be filled with the shards of faith. what it feels like to know, buried in my chest, pieces stuck in me as sharp as a knife.
it didn't come out right.
i whispered Sindri when i meant to say honour.
once is enough. twice is irreverent.
i know.
the hall echoes, now emptied of people. there are strands of loose conversation in the flutter of the curtains. my head feels heavy still, but the ringing mellowed with time, the taste of bitter willow chewed between teeth. my fox, silent, follows after me and glows bright.
she is there too, perched like a bird in a dream, at the edge of the stage. i remember now. in my room, the smell of grapes, the television.
"Arcadia."
in my hand, i hold up the watch, magnetic pieces of stone, the screen flickering. everyone you kiss dies. in stórráða.
"you called." her skin burns red, little wounds splattered across her. close enough, i touch her hand. then, meet her gaze in the warmth of it. this may someday be your death. i pull away.
i remember the length of leather, curled in my bag. they'd call her in stórráða.
"you're alive."
vin scavenges Interview Stage
|0DvlsOZOo1-10
