i am fortune's fool, vin & arcadia
Nov 3, 2023 1:26:38 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Nov 3, 2023 1:26:38 GMT -5
❦
topiary looms between the stone statues, little trees in funny shapes. on the path, a woman stands in stone armour. she cradles a bouquet of bell-shaped flowers to her chest. pink and silk-petaled, they glow under the moon, silver moths ringed on her crown, perched on the buds. it smells sweet. i touch her face. lengths of vine fall off her hair, her shoulders. they rule shadows down her cheeks, like weeping, casted in the strange blue tint of the sky.
Hel pyre. she fed him to the wolves. blood of heroes unwashed from her hands.
twelve years, she was. twelve winters.
oathbreaker.
her expression is solemn. unmoveable.
his downfall. the ravens chatter in gurgling croaks. go again to a long sleep. follow the wolf to Hel.
my hand slips from her face.
i pull three stems of the bouquet. the silver moths follow.
walking, i throw pebbles over the ledge. the air shudders, glimmering with breath. they bounce back, one by one, and clatter to my feet. the glaive drags on the path, edge of the blade above a whisper.
in the night, the wind heaves, sighing, aggrieved. all the buildings are behemoths, and the wind does not rattle them, but groans against their hugeness. i climb the ledge and look below. the streets are washed with blinking colours and lights. the open air. then, my hands. blood beneath the nails from when i stitched Roe's chest, knotted with thread, moored to the sound of his breath. i can't wash myself of him.
i sit down. thin, infinite barrier humming against my back.
little deceiver.
the sound of footsteps.
fist around the glaive. my grip tightens until it hurts.
in the east, the sun thinks of rising. the moon still hangs, large and faint in the glow of the city.
i thought of her, and she comes to me.
Arcadia looks up to where i am on the ledge. we are quiet beneath the cloak of night. the changing shifts of sound. killer of kings, they sing of her. she would be, i don't deny it. she told me of her family, the names, the stories. and the vial rests, warm under my shirt.
"i didn't know if i'd see you again."
and then the flowers in my other hand. i hold them towards her. "yours."
Hel pyre. she fed him to the wolves. blood of heroes unwashed from her hands.
twelve years, she was. twelve winters.
oathbreaker.
her expression is solemn. unmoveable.
his downfall. the ravens chatter in gurgling croaks. go again to a long sleep. follow the wolf to Hel.
my hand slips from her face.
i pull three stems of the bouquet. the silver moths follow.
walking, i throw pebbles over the ledge. the air shudders, glimmering with breath. they bounce back, one by one, and clatter to my feet. the glaive drags on the path, edge of the blade above a whisper.
in the night, the wind heaves, sighing, aggrieved. all the buildings are behemoths, and the wind does not rattle them, but groans against their hugeness. i climb the ledge and look below. the streets are washed with blinking colours and lights. the open air. then, my hands. blood beneath the nails from when i stitched Roe's chest, knotted with thread, moored to the sound of his breath. i can't wash myself of him.
i sit down. thin, infinite barrier humming against my back.
little deceiver.
the sound of footsteps.
fist around the glaive. my grip tightens until it hurts.
in the east, the sun thinks of rising. the moon still hangs, large and faint in the glow of the city.
i thought of her, and she comes to me.
Arcadia looks up to where i am on the ledge. we are quiet beneath the cloak of night. the changing shifts of sound. killer of kings, they sing of her. she would be, i don't deny it. she told me of her family, the names, the stories. and the vial rests, warm under my shirt.
"i didn't know if i'd see you again."
and then the flowers in my other hand. i hold them towards her. "yours."
vin scavenges garden
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9 | Butterfly-Attracting Flowers
