twin skeletons {69th finale}
Apr 11, 2015 12:12:29 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 11, 2015 12:12:29 GMT -5
We tell tales of these—
Heroes and thieves
Of their ascension to greatness and glory,
But more often than not we tend to miss the most important part of the story.
For there’s a moment in each
When that forsaken glory seems to be just out of reach.
If that moment is now,
There’s no time left for a why or a how,
Only that of cursed resurrection,
My dearest Margaret, this is not the time for anything less than perfection.
With cane in hand and coin in pocket I had settled down for the night, fits of sleep coming between the sunset and announcement of anthem. It strikes the sky with blazes of color, and as the capitol symbol fades to that of two faces, the boy from nine and the girl from six, I press myself further into the small patch of snow still untouched by the blood of the latter. It had seemed a struggle to even move that far, from the site at which she had fallen to my previous position, and as her face seems to linger in the night sky—far longer than the boy from nine had seemed to—I run my hand over the lion’s head that lay across my lap.
Marchello Donner had asked me to lay rest to the idea of accusations of guilt, and instead of appeasing them I had struck down the mind that was to receive the message. It seemed now that he would stay with me despite my attempts to rid myself of the memories of him, and though the relief had lasted for the time it had taken to watch Ellexias Verisity fall to the snow never to rise again, it had returned with the rise of the moon, and it seemed that the morning sun would not chase one of these to rest.
It did not.
Instead, the morning sun brings about nothing more than the feeling of emptiness lingering in the air, and with the void comes my heart of flesh to break the silence, weighing heavily within my chest yet still beating for Alexis Rondhal, Pixie Ruined, and the three I had killed.
After all, I had wanted to break the silence.
But its rhythm does not bring about the sense of security I had longed for, and though I had hoped that the last two days spent truly living would be the end of this escapade (but oh how it seemed that this was the way one was destined to die, finding a pulse beneath dead skin), it appeared that my want to revert back to the state in which I found myself prior, stepping with no purpose other than falling for a kingdom already in ruin.
I pull the crown from my bag once more, setting it upon my head with less dignity than the two previous days.
This was no coronation; this was a burial.
And as the morning sun blares the rays of its arrival, I leave those god forsaken hills, patches of red contrasting against the snow it once held pure.
I am nothing but sin in its wake; nothing but a mistake.
After all, I had never mattered much, not with odds stacked against me and mountains rising far too high over my head to be a sensible climb, yet here I was, standing at its summit with crown in hand whilst looking over a kingdom already fallen.
It rules that I must tumble now.
And with a quiet pace I leave the hills for a final time, determined to stay free from the snares experienced the last two days left in their wake. Two cannons, each lingering on the horizon like a death wish unfulfilled, and the coin that turns over in my pocket only serves as a point of reverberation.
It catches on the lion’s head grasped firmly in my palm, teeth driving against my flesh like the axe that dug its grave into my skin the day before.
I am a graveyard of broken bodies and chipping weapons; an artist’s palette of every shade of red imaginable. One may stain of anger while the other love, though the latter would never stay true for flesh or mind but that of task alone.
Rule a kingdom; save the people.
I had already failed in one of these, and the ghosts of Alexis and Pixie continued to whisper in my ear night after night to keep me from forgetting this. Their blood lay at the end of swords still carried by enemies alike, drying to the whistle of a wind that still carried the sounds of their cannons.
One, two—they never cease.
They are the constant battle cry of a war that will never end no matter whom waves the white flag of surrender the highest—I know one thing only, it will not be me.
A queen does not fall until her crown and kingdom do the same, and it seems that the consummation of this lingers just over the horizon, materializing in the girl from eleven.
What’s to be done with eight days living?
The blood of Marchello Donner and Ellexias Verisity has dried in the cracks of my skin; the blood of her friends has painted my dry tongue.
“I’ve never been much of a morning person.” The tone is light, a sunrise on a bleak horizon turned red with every shade of anger when the thought must cross her mind—
She must be starving for one last chance at saving grace.
And I wish that I could say the same but the only thing that speaks in its place is the answer to a question she did not ask, “I killed them, you know.”
Knowledge is ammunition in a gun loaded, and her finger rests lightly on the trigger.
I take a breath—one, two—
(“They can’t kill you if you’re already dead.”)
Please don’t shoot.
Heroes and thieves
Of their ascension to greatness and glory,
But more often than not we tend to miss the most important part of the story.
For there’s a moment in each
When that forsaken glory seems to be just out of reach.
If that moment is now,
There’s no time left for a why or a how,
Only that of cursed resurrection,
My dearest Margaret, this is not the time for anything less than perfection.
With cane in hand and coin in pocket I had settled down for the night, fits of sleep coming between the sunset and announcement of anthem. It strikes the sky with blazes of color, and as the capitol symbol fades to that of two faces, the boy from nine and the girl from six, I press myself further into the small patch of snow still untouched by the blood of the latter. It had seemed a struggle to even move that far, from the site at which she had fallen to my previous position, and as her face seems to linger in the night sky—far longer than the boy from nine had seemed to—I run my hand over the lion’s head that lay across my lap.
Marchello Donner had asked me to lay rest to the idea of accusations of guilt, and instead of appeasing them I had struck down the mind that was to receive the message. It seemed now that he would stay with me despite my attempts to rid myself of the memories of him, and though the relief had lasted for the time it had taken to watch Ellexias Verisity fall to the snow never to rise again, it had returned with the rise of the moon, and it seemed that the morning sun would not chase one of these to rest.
It did not.
Instead, the morning sun brings about nothing more than the feeling of emptiness lingering in the air, and with the void comes my heart of flesh to break the silence, weighing heavily within my chest yet still beating for Alexis Rondhal, Pixie Ruined, and the three I had killed.
After all, I had wanted to break the silence.
But its rhythm does not bring about the sense of security I had longed for, and though I had hoped that the last two days spent truly living would be the end of this escapade (but oh how it seemed that this was the way one was destined to die, finding a pulse beneath dead skin), it appeared that my want to revert back to the state in which I found myself prior, stepping with no purpose other than falling for a kingdom already in ruin.
I pull the crown from my bag once more, setting it upon my head with less dignity than the two previous days.
This was no coronation; this was a burial.
And as the morning sun blares the rays of its arrival, I leave those god forsaken hills, patches of red contrasting against the snow it once held pure.
I am nothing but sin in its wake; nothing but a mistake.
After all, I had never mattered much, not with odds stacked against me and mountains rising far too high over my head to be a sensible climb, yet here I was, standing at its summit with crown in hand whilst looking over a kingdom already fallen.
It rules that I must tumble now.
And with a quiet pace I leave the hills for a final time, determined to stay free from the snares experienced the last two days left in their wake. Two cannons, each lingering on the horizon like a death wish unfulfilled, and the coin that turns over in my pocket only serves as a point of reverberation.
It catches on the lion’s head grasped firmly in my palm, teeth driving against my flesh like the axe that dug its grave into my skin the day before.
I am a graveyard of broken bodies and chipping weapons; an artist’s palette of every shade of red imaginable. One may stain of anger while the other love, though the latter would never stay true for flesh or mind but that of task alone.
Rule a kingdom; save the people.
I had already failed in one of these, and the ghosts of Alexis and Pixie continued to whisper in my ear night after night to keep me from forgetting this. Their blood lay at the end of swords still carried by enemies alike, drying to the whistle of a wind that still carried the sounds of their cannons.
One, two—they never cease.
They are the constant battle cry of a war that will never end no matter whom waves the white flag of surrender the highest—I know one thing only, it will not be me.
A queen does not fall until her crown and kingdom do the same, and it seems that the consummation of this lingers just over the horizon, materializing in the girl from eleven.
What’s to be done with eight days living?
The blood of Marchello Donner and Ellexias Verisity has dried in the cracks of my skin; the blood of her friends has painted my dry tongue.
“I’ve never been much of a morning person.” The tone is light, a sunrise on a bleak horizon turned red with every shade of anger when the thought must cross her mind—
She must be starving for one last chance at saving grace.
And I wish that I could say the same but the only thing that speaks in its place is the answer to a question she did not ask, “I killed them, you know.”
Knowledge is ammunition in a gun loaded, and her finger rests lightly on the trigger.
I take a breath—one, two—
(“They can’t kill you if you’re already dead.”)
Please don’t shoot.
[margaret dubois attacks katelyn persimmon; spear]
surKJqUZspear
[deep gash on neck -- 10.0]
surKJqUZspear
[deep gash on neck -- 10.0]
table by anzie
