empire state of mind {margaret/ellexias, day 7}
Apr 4, 2015 6:17:54 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 4, 2015 6:17:54 GMT -5
To have a heart of flesh must mean,
Living dead was never in her genes.
For Margaret DuBois is now something more,
Than listless dreams and metaphor.
For now the tale is never like or as,
But rather the active mind she now has.
I do not leave his side.
Even after the last remnant of his cannon has shifted below the horizon with the sun, his last words (“St—stay with me.”), repeat in my mind, and though my items are tucked neatly in my bag I cannot bear to lift myself to my feet and leave him to fall alone.
Instead, I spend a few moments sifting through his bag, and with the discovery of supplies I run my fingers over the coin in my pockets, yet never do I bring it out, for I cannot bear to see its inscription, for fear of personal attachment. Marchello Donner had been set before me as nothing more than an example, a living (or now, dying) reason as to why living for others was nothing more than an idea which would lead one down a path to death. And now, when the cannons of others have signaled the remains of only four, following that path was even more treacherous.
However, it seemed that I could not cause my heart of flesh to revert to the vegetative state in which it had lain before, for when the anthem blares, and how it blares this night in particular, I can feel his words resounding in my bones, hours after his body had been lifted from its temporary grave.
(“St—stay with me.”)
(“But the morning sun says I cannot.”)
And since there seems to be no other voice of ultimatum I take to my feet, slinging backpack over shoulder and passing up the opportunity to look at the last spot on which Marchello Donner stood.
I keep hold of his cane, the head of a lion sitting comfortably in the palm of my hand as I venture on in anything but silence (“St—stay with me.”) The irony of my morning in the justice building struck a chord too deep for me to chuckle at its thought, when breaking the silence had been the one task I had struggled to carry out.
You would think one ear it would be quite easy to bring back that which I could not find.
But it stays just out of my reach, and with fingers desperate to appease themselves with some sort of work I pull the flower crown from my head, taking the time to carefully unknot each piece of hair that’s caught in its brambles. Two of the black petals come off with it, and as I toss them behind me they serve a grim reminder, starkly contrasting the background of white upon which they sit.
I watch them over my shoulder until they blur with hills on the horizon.
And after that time has passed, when the peaks and valleys have seemed to fade and the words of Marchello Donner have not, I turn my attention to the coin in my pocket, finally bringing myself to look at what significance it might hold.
To thine own self be true.
But how was I to carry this out if I could not figure out the meaning to the pulse I found in my wrist? As if a beating heart now, after seventeen years of stepping dead would stop that which was already set in stone.
(“They can’t kill you if you’re already dead.”)
When I screamed, watching my ear fall to the ground in front of me, I had never felt more alive. For when I had never cared, when fleeting life and falling hopes never left my pace missing a beat, even breaking bones and cracking scars could not cause pain, and it left not only the weight of a heart of stone pressing against my chest, but also the void of that which was meant to exist.
I had cried for Alexis, not at the ideals of losing him and the care he had shown, but for the idea that Hedvig had passed on a task, that of saving him, and I had failed to carry it out.
(“Do you know why I love your sister Mara?
“Because she’s a fucking suck up and—”
“She doesn’t let me down.”)
Failed promises and dangling regrets are dangerous things, and when the girl from six appears on the horizon, looking just about as mangled as myself, my heart of flesh picks up pace, and with a tone that’s almost eager I throw the cane and coin at her feet, “He seemed sure that you and I would cross paths.”
(“St—stay with me.”)
You only had three wishes, Marchello Donner.
Two of them had been fulfilled when the coin and cane transferred from my palm to the snow at her feet, and the third comes as a whisper, when the lion’s head catches the morning sun, “He wanted you to know he didn’t blame you for leaving.”
(“St—stay with me.”)
Not anymore.
Living dead was never in her genes.
For Margaret DuBois is now something more,
Than listless dreams and metaphor.
For now the tale is never like or as,
But rather the active mind she now has.
I do not leave his side.
Even after the last remnant of his cannon has shifted below the horizon with the sun, his last words (“St—stay with me.”), repeat in my mind, and though my items are tucked neatly in my bag I cannot bear to lift myself to my feet and leave him to fall alone.
Instead, I spend a few moments sifting through his bag, and with the discovery of supplies I run my fingers over the coin in my pockets, yet never do I bring it out, for I cannot bear to see its inscription, for fear of personal attachment. Marchello Donner had been set before me as nothing more than an example, a living (or now, dying) reason as to why living for others was nothing more than an idea which would lead one down a path to death. And now, when the cannons of others have signaled the remains of only four, following that path was even more treacherous.
However, it seemed that I could not cause my heart of flesh to revert to the vegetative state in which it had lain before, for when the anthem blares, and how it blares this night in particular, I can feel his words resounding in my bones, hours after his body had been lifted from its temporary grave.
(“St—stay with me.”)
(“But the morning sun says I cannot.”)
And since there seems to be no other voice of ultimatum I take to my feet, slinging backpack over shoulder and passing up the opportunity to look at the last spot on which Marchello Donner stood.
I keep hold of his cane, the head of a lion sitting comfortably in the palm of my hand as I venture on in anything but silence (“St—stay with me.”) The irony of my morning in the justice building struck a chord too deep for me to chuckle at its thought, when breaking the silence had been the one task I had struggled to carry out.
You would think one ear it would be quite easy to bring back that which I could not find.
But it stays just out of my reach, and with fingers desperate to appease themselves with some sort of work I pull the flower crown from my head, taking the time to carefully unknot each piece of hair that’s caught in its brambles. Two of the black petals come off with it, and as I toss them behind me they serve a grim reminder, starkly contrasting the background of white upon which they sit.
I watch them over my shoulder until they blur with hills on the horizon.
And after that time has passed, when the peaks and valleys have seemed to fade and the words of Marchello Donner have not, I turn my attention to the coin in my pocket, finally bringing myself to look at what significance it might hold.
To thine own self be true.
But how was I to carry this out if I could not figure out the meaning to the pulse I found in my wrist? As if a beating heart now, after seventeen years of stepping dead would stop that which was already set in stone.
(“They can’t kill you if you’re already dead.”)
When I screamed, watching my ear fall to the ground in front of me, I had never felt more alive. For when I had never cared, when fleeting life and falling hopes never left my pace missing a beat, even breaking bones and cracking scars could not cause pain, and it left not only the weight of a heart of stone pressing against my chest, but also the void of that which was meant to exist.
I had cried for Alexis, not at the ideals of losing him and the care he had shown, but for the idea that Hedvig had passed on a task, that of saving him, and I had failed to carry it out.
(“Do you know why I love your sister Mara?
“Because she’s a fucking suck up and—”
“She doesn’t let me down.”)
Failed promises and dangling regrets are dangerous things, and when the girl from six appears on the horizon, looking just about as mangled as myself, my heart of flesh picks up pace, and with a tone that’s almost eager I throw the cane and coin at her feet, “He seemed sure that you and I would cross paths.”
(“St—stay with me.”)
You only had three wishes, Marchello Donner.
Two of them had been fulfilled when the coin and cane transferred from my palm to the snow at her feet, and the third comes as a whisper, when the lion’s head catches the morning sun, “He wanted you to know he didn’t blame you for leaving.”
(“St—stay with me.”)
Not anymore.
[margaret dubois attacks ellexias verisity; axe]
ck0LckWTaxe
[severed left calf at knee -- 9.0]
ck0LckWTaxe
[severed left calf at knee -- 9.0]
table by anzie