inmemoratum-blog

[inmemoratum-blog]

            Heroes are made by the paths they choose,                   not the powers they are graced with.

[inmemoratum-blog]

.

[inmemoratum-blog]

.

[inmemoratum-blog]

{ Short semi-hiatus notice (9/29-10/08)! I should still be on to chip away at replies slowly, but I won’t be terribly active! I have a convention (artist alley) on the 7th that I am rather poorly prepared for and I would like to dedicate most of my free time to working on stock for it! I know I’ve been slow, and that’s partly due to stress from my day job. Unfortunately, there’s a new manager there who very much dislikes me and is actively trying to get me fired or force me to quit (she somehow managed to cut my hours so much that I’m only working two days the week after the con and she wrote me up for something I didn’t do and somehow got away with that too), so work and my general financial situation has been very stressful for me which has made me very slow as I come home drained. I am also hoping to get a doctor’s appointment made soon as I’ve been having a lot of trouble with my wrists lately (they’ve always been bad, but just yesterday a guest at work offered to flip through the pages of an ad for me because my fingers were physically unable to grasp them, so it’s time man). Thank you for your patience, I’m just a mess right now! There are people I need to message about our threads on here as well, and I promise I’ll get those out after this hiatus is over I’m not ignoring thread responses, I just need to clarify a few things! And finally, I know I’m willing to selectively follow minors on my other blog, but I do not follow minors on this blog due to the sheer number of triggers I write here! Thank you for understanding! } 

[inmemoratum-blog]

{ Short semi-hiatus notice (9/29-10/08)! I should still be on to chip away at replies slowly, but I won’t be terribly active! I have a convention (artist alley) on the 7th that I am rather poorly prepared for and I would like to dedicate most of my free time to working on stock for it! I know I’ve been slow, and that’s partly due to stress from my day job. Unfortunately, there’s a new manager there who very much dislikes me and is actively trying to get me fired or force me to quit (she somehow managed to cut my hours so much that I’m only working two days the week after the con and she wrote me up for something I didn’t do and somehow got away with that too), so work and my general financial situation has been very stressful for me which has made me very slow as I come home drained. I am also hoping to get a doctor’s appointment made soon as I’ve been having a lot of trouble with my wrists lately (they’ve always been bad, but just yesterday a guest at work offered to flip through the pages of an ad for me because my fingers were physically unable to grasp them, so it’s time man). Thank you for your patience, I’m just a mess right now! There are people I need to message about our threads on here as well, and I promise I’ll get those out after this hiatus is over I’m not ignoring thread responses, I just need to clarify a few things! And finally, I know I’m willing to selectively follow minors on my other blog, but I do not follow minors on this blog due to the sheer number of triggers I write here! Thank you for understanding! } 

[inmemoratum-blog]

▄ [ Joke: "How do skeletons send their letters? ... By bony express!" ]

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse — || Accepting

▄ = telling them a joke .

         “What in Naga’s name made you think wasting my time with some inane joke was a good idea?” He’d probably missed something; everything short of war and strategy tended to be lost on him when his nose was constantly shoved in some complex tome or a detailed map of the location of their next battle (or, rather, where he assumed it would take place, but he was right the vast majority of the time). He wouldn’t have been able to name even half of the Shepherds if not for Chrom spending an entire night forcing him to memorize them after he had referred to Stahl as the ‘that guy in green with the horse, I think, or maybe he’s that blue haired guy’, much to the other man’s dismay. Needless to say, Robin was more of a book person than a people person, and anything that involved the second option that didn’t happen to be the upcoming Exalt he owed his life to wasn’t worth his time. Holiday themes jokes (no matter how clever) and holidays themselves included (not that he even remembered they existed to begin with.    

[inmemoratum-blog]

rpmemediary:

veilled :

alternatively send ‘ + ‘ after the symbol for the roles to be reversed where possible !

✘ = hugging them . Δ = playing with their hair .  ❤ = kissing them .  ₪ =  asking them out for dinner . ☀ = giving them a gift of ___ ( asker’s choice ) . ♘ = stabbing them . ♕ = bowing down before them . ♒ = lying to them .   ✿ = buying them flowers . ♢ = reading them a story . ☂ = giving them their jumper to keep warm . ✎ = speaking in a different language . ✏ = teaching them a different language . ▄ = telling them a joke . �� = singing to them . ☹ = insulting a loved one . ஐ = slapping them . ✂ = threatening them . ❃ = dancing with them . ▤ = falling asleep on them . ☮ = waking them up after a nightmare .  ♣ = discovering them crying .  回 = patching a wound .  ✮ = stargazing . ▓ = caught stealing their belongings . ☽ = wandering alone at night . ♡ = complimenting them . ≡ = offering a place to stay overnight . ☢ = falling over . ✦ = being well-dressed . ❂ = wiping blood off their face . ◎ = taking care of them while ill . ☁ = being caught in the middle a storm with them . ⇕ = holding their hand . ↱ = being lost with them . ☠ = pushing them against a wall .

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse ---

[inmemoratum-blog]

❝ in my dreams i see it. i see them… i see us… we’re all so happy, as though we’ve never known sorrow. our hands are clean, are smiles free. and then my eyes open, and i hear it. i hear their battle cries… i hear our tired sighs… and when i look down at my too rough hands and see my own exhausted reflection, all i can pitifully think is… ‘ah, it was just a dream.’ ❞

[inmemoratum-blog]

royacia:

       with her time spent with an army, mending wounds via staff and by hand, the princess has come across many scars. some were more visible than others, some larger, and some appearing more cruel. each mark tainting once pure skin only ever sent shivers and sympathy down her spine, and his are no exception. her brows are quick to furrow, no matter how difficult they are to see. his skin is marred, and it’s no wonder he wears his hood. suddenly, she feels terrible for even attempting to try to view his features, her pangs of guilt pushing back the unease that comes with his frighteningly faint red gaze. fingers fiddle with the cuffs of her dress, eyes being cast elsewhere as if to showcase regret for her rudeness. older and wiser she may be, but the insensitivity from youth seemed to follow her nonetheless. 

    lips part to speak, but she can’t help the way her body seems to freeze as this hooded figure ruffles her hair. familiarity courses through her veins as this stranger lays affection upon her, a soft gasp leaving still gaping lips. when he rests his hand atop her head, a ghost of warmth from someone important seemed to gently call to memories she isn’t sure are there. perhaps she was attributing this warmth to the long gone touch of her dear sister ( however, the love she feels isn’t from the soft hands of emmeryn, but from rough hands that were too familiar with war and it wasn’t her brother’s so then… who’s…? ). 

    she finds no offense in his action. no, in fact, all she feels is curiosity. she peers up at the man with a puzzled expression, heart attempting to unite with her brain. the heart remembers, but the brain doesn’t, and it’s so frustrating, yet she cannot voice it to someone she doesn’t know. ❝ i… see…❞ she says slowly, as though recovering from her stupor. blinking, she clears her throat, the smallest fond smile spreading across her features. “i understand… the army i was with became my family too… we’ve all gone our separate ways, but i hope they’re doing well… someday, maybe you’ll meet that girl again. i’m sure she’d be glad to see you.” 

    and truly, she would be, had lissa remembered him. had fate been kind and allowed robin a future in ylisse, after such a long absence, the princess would shed tears upon their reunion. he was a dear friend, a sibling, a member of her ever large family, and one of her dearest companions. she’d call him a fool for being gone for so long, and though his appearance would be different, she’d love him all the same. 

    because he was robin, no matter what happened. 

    “you don’t have to apologize for patting my head… but, still, kinda weird for a stranger to do that to a princess, isn’t it?” her voice carries light amusement, something even the darkest of days couldn’t diminish. however it is fleeting, her expression becoming solemn soon enough. “i’m sorry though… for not being able to help you. i don’t even have a drink that could soothe your throat…” her arms cross in thought, lips pursed and soon enough she’s nodding, a hand upon her hip as an index finger raises. 

    “listen, i know i talked to you first, but if you’re not feeling well, it’s okay to say that so you can go rest. maybe i’m being too pushy, and i know we live in a pretty peaceful time now, but travelling alone is dangerous when you’re sick! back when i was fighting in the war, i’d always get scolded for not taking care of my health! i was always told ‘pranks are fun, but don’t go out in the rain to go do it!’” though mimicking robin’s voice, quickly she pauses, raised hand resting upon her chin as she looks down in thought. she appears troubled once again, brows furrowing as if desperately searching through memories unknowingly stolen from her. 

    “… i can’t remember who said that though… i think it was… hm… maybe it was one of the supporting soldiers…”

         ‘I’m sure she’d be glad to see you.’ And he wonders if she would be when he’s covered in ghastly scales, unsettling marks, and barely clinging to what little humanity is left within his broken, decaying body. Wonders if she would forgive him for the blood on his hands and the bones in mouth, or for the pain he knows he’s brought upon them in one way or another. Wonders if she would have even missed him at all when he had failed her so many times; when he had let her beloved sister die, when he had sent soldiers into battle only to watch them fall, or when he had betrayed Chrom (feeding him sweet lies of a future where he would have stood beside him instead of one where he wouldn’t be there at all) to put Grima down for good (but that had backfired; just look at what it’s done to him now). 

          No, she wouldn’t, is the answer his racing, frantic mind comes to a screeching halt upon because he’s done too much to be worthy of such mercy. But looking at her is so hard; it makes his hollow chest throb and his faltering, dying hurt sputter helplessly because gods she’s grown up, but somehow she seems the same as she’s always been (like war had never broken them, but he’s no fool, he was there to watch it destroy all of them). And he wants nothing more than to reach out; embrace her and beg for forgiveness she can’t possible offer him because she doesn’t know. But not knowing is better, surely, than remembering; remembering and surviving to see the monster he’s become. So isn’t it an act of mercy rather than cruelty that leaves her ignorant to the fact that he had been a part of her life?

         So it’s with mercy, perhaps for her or for himself, that he forces a smile upon his splintered lips at her words. And it’s the saddest grin he’s ever let paint his shattered features, but it feels better than wallowing in his regrets and wishing he had a way of fixing this (of fixing himself) only to know he never will. “Thank you,” he croaks, and she’ll never know just how sincere those words are or how much her seemingly senseless rambling had meant to him because, in a way, it was the closest he would ever come to being granted peace by someone he had once dreamed of spending mundane, thoughtless years beside after the end of an ugly war. And it was good enough for him. 

          A rusted, soft laugh rattles his dry throat. It’s so quiet and so strained that it almost sounded like a cough if one wasn’t listening closely, but it’s the first one to leave his worthless lungs in years, and it startles him; makes him clamp his mouth shut to drown out the noise because it sounds foreign to his sensitive, pointed ears. “I’ve always been a bit odd, I’m afraid, but my name is Robin, princess. Now we aren’t quiet strangers anymore.” They’re words he never believed he would have to speak again, but they flow so easily that it’s almost painful, yet, somehow, they bring with them a strange sense of peace (like he was the man they had picked up from that field what felt like centuries ago all over again). “It’s all right, milady, I am fine, you need not worry about me.” 

         His features crinkle in confusion when she begins to scold him, and then he freezes; crimson eyes wide with something akin to horror as she quotes him. His heart is in his throat, trying to claw its way up into his mouth so it can spew bile all over the street because he might be nothing more than a few foggy words here and there, but a part of her, no matter how small, remembers him. And that’s more than enough; more than his wicked, shallow soul could have ever desired. It sinks like a sword into the pit of his stomach that he’ll never dislodge; she remembers you, and he’s trembling. “Lissa.” His hands move to cover his mouth, and he swallows the hot, vile rush of blood and gods knows what else that creeps up his throat; just the faintest sting of a tepid liquid eating away at the corners of his eyes as his knees give out and slam gracelessly against the street. But it doesn’t hurt; nothing hurts anymore because even if she can’t place his name, his face, or his bond with her; she remembers him, vague as that memory happens to be.       

            “I’m so sorry.”                 

[inmemoratum-blog]

defilebrand:            

            ` i’ve kept you waiting for far too long.’

he let out a strangled sigh, his voice hitching as if he were on the verge of tears, as his shoulders finally relaxed into a somber slouch. the cupid’s bow of his lips thinned into a line as forneus grimaced, as if nursing an old headache, and he stood back up, the hand on robin’s jaw twisting to hold his hand instead. his cloak fluttered about him as he rose to an awkward crouch, a silver lock gently falling across his face and ever so slightly disheveling his neat hair. he made no motion to push it back, instead urging him to stand up.

            ` forgive me. to be left behind is such a painful experience.’

the fell dragon’s influence had outlasted him, it seemed, a concept that was an equal blow to his moral compass as it was to his ego. the experiment he had created out of his own pride and desperation had succeeded him in every way possible, using him as a stepping stone for his own means, as did everyone else before him. using him! his creator! what a slap in the face! he could almost laugh at the irony.

still, he had fallen on his own sword and had embarrassingly lived to tell the tale. rodents were so hard to kill, the clever little things. how was he any different? his time in the clouds had fooled him into thinking he was anything but, as he danced about in fine fabrics, masquerading as someone of inflated importance, an irreplaceable jewel in the crown of thabes. idiot boy, he was, for fool’s gold was all he would be, and all the books in the world would never have prepared him for the fall.

he remembered his fists bleeding as he slammed on the doors over and over, begging to be released, his nails chipping as he dug into the stone and cried aloud, despair feeding into the creation that would be his undoing. he remembered feeling everything at once, regret and hatred and bitterness and desperation and betrayal swirling inside him and set to boil by the fire of the fell dragon, and that terrifying feeling of losing control over something he had made, consuming him all at once, chewing at his flesh, and spitting out his bones.

he wondered whose woes weighed heavier – his or his descendant’s.

                         ( ah, but misfortunes were not meant to be weighed. )

forneus felt a bit faint, his thoughts fuzzing up as he gripped robin’s hand tighter. he was not whole, and he was not meant to be whole. it had taken a tremendous effort to even crawl out of his miserable grave and return to the half - life to which he had resigned himself. he had grown stamina since then, yes, but quelling his own creation proved to be even more exhausting than he had imagined. his eyes clamped shut and a bead of cold sweat dripped down his face as he swallowed.

            ` we should leave. the dark is his territory.’

            ` perhaps an inn would do … i’m afraid i’m not feeling well, little bird.’

          His head is clearer than it has ever been before (no longer do thoughts of hunger and greed and fire and rage swarm through his mind like wild armies), but he feels more empty and lost than he had in the years he had spent isolating himself from a society that desired his head upon a sword. His mind had been so long clouded by the rampant, untamed voice of the Fell Dragon (dragging it down, cluttering it; drowning it) that he felt like a stranger in his own head with only his own distressed, confused voice to keep himself company. But it gives him room to breathe; to think, and to focus on the man before him, even if he can’t quiet make sense the stranger (and a part of him is still whispering words of warning; if he can silence the Fell Dragon he is likely capable of so much more). But Robin dismisses them with ease (because what does he have left to lose? His life? Gladly).  

          His fingers; battle-licked and riddled with ugly callouses from holding too many blades and memorizing too many pages from complex tomes, curled ever so slightly about the stranger’s knuckles when he stood (don’t go). It was a subconscious, unintentional twitch because (even if he himself isn’t quite aware), he’s afraid of being left alone again; terrified of having to choke down Grima’s will and of having to feel the Fell Dragon’s influence creep back into even the very marrow of his bones once again. He had forgotten the world, and himself; could no longer even dream of what it would have been like if he weren’t made to struggle against the dragon or what his life could have been like if he weren’t withering away. But this was real; this was the world he had once loved, the one he had nearly died to protect, and he’s not quite ready to welcome the familiarity of the Fell Dragon back into his aching body yet (just a bit longer, his mind begs). 

           He bites his lip; the dull pang of his tooth as it sinks into the flesh is strange to him when he’s used to sharp fangs that had been capable of slicing through his skin with little effort. ‘To be left behind is such a painful experience’ the words linger in the air between them until they feel like they might wrap their trembling, passionate fingers around his neck and strangle him. He knows the feeling like he knows the scars that leave behind vile marks upon his skin; like he knows the feeling of Grima’s breath in his ear and his voice in his throat because it’s become something akin to a home away from home to him since he had woken up, alone and disfigured, in that inane field. He had been left to piece together what remained of himself while he watched the people he had once loved fear him; hate him, and reject him because they had moved on (they had forgotten him), but he was still trapped in the past.   

            “I-” I’ve been so lost, he swallows. “No, there’s nothing to forgive, you have done no wrong by me. I must apologize that all I can do it thank you, and even that will never be enough.” He still can’t wrap his mind around Grima’s submission, but he doesn’t want to clog his thoughts with the possibilities when they’re nothing more than ‘what if’s’ and ‘how come’s’ and even his best guess is just a worthless theory that leads to dead-ends and questionable logic. But he’s all right with wandering in the dark; the answer doesn’t matter to him anymore. If he’s free for only a moment or an hour, it makes little difference; all that matters is that; however brief, he finally knows what it feels like to be himself again.    

              So he works up the courage to push himself onto unsteady first; still just a bit rattled by Grima’s earlier attempt to control him, but he manages to stand, even if it’s done with trembling knees and blistering feet. He feels the other man’s hold upon his hand tighten, and his gaze finally falls on the stranger’s face in its entirety (and he shakes off the sense of dread that warps his thoughts when he tries to connect the dots he can’t see). He knows exhaustion, though, when its painted across the man’s face. And he doesn’t know if he should, but he lifts his free hand to gently wipe away the bead of sweat traveling down the stranger’s face before allowing it to settle against the man’s shoulder. He’s still a bit unsteady himself, but he owes the other this much, if not so much more. 

               “Right,” he breathes, shrugging the hood of his cloak back over his head; over the horns that still sit so neatly upon his head, like they were made to be there (the Fell Dragon’s presence might have been subdued for now, but the beast’s hold on him remained clear as day upon his beaten and abused body). “I-I know this city well,” he admits despite how bitter the words taste upon his tongue and how his chest constricts at the thought. “There is one not far from here. Are you able to walk? If not I will support you.” If leading him somewhere safe is all Robin can do in return, he is more than willing to do whatever it would take to accomplish that much.   

[inmemoratum-blog]

ofmortcm:

She studies Robin, concern etched onto her features. Something about him isn’t right, and she fully intends to find out what it is.

“You haven’t been eating as much lately.” She comments. “Right about now you’d be helping yourself to a light snack, usually fruit or something sweet. I’ve also noticed at supper you’ve eaten a smaller portion than usual.” She recites. 

To anyone, it would be creepy and downright horrifying that she memorized someone’s eating habits so well, but in Tharja’s eyes, it’s all out of love.  

“Have you fallen ill? Do you have an upset stomach?” 

💀 @inmemoratum 💀

      Emmeryn’s death still weighs heavy on his mind as the calloused pads of his palms press none too gently against crumbled parchment and wet pens. Chrom and Lissa hadn’t blamed him (at least not out right, but he tacked their forgiveness on their bleeding hearts), but Robin had not been so lenient with himself on the matter, and it was beginning to impact his usual habits. Regardless of how the others felt about the subject; he had, in the end, failed. And he was not the type of person who could accept a lose with grace when his entire existence (or rather, place within the mismatched, awkward family he become a part of) ridded on his ability to keep people alive (what mockery when his only talents were slaughter and plans of murder).  

         Tharja’s voice doesn’t come as a surprise to him when it tears his thoughts away from the discarded tactics and maps scattered about the floor. He’s gotten to used to presence at some point or another (whether that’s for better or worse had yet to be seen), so he merely lifts his gaze from his work to look at her; sleep licking at the bottoms of his eyes, but he didn’t seem phased by the exhaustion that lingered within him. 

           “Well, I suppose it’s never a bad thing to have done your research,” he sighs, setting a pen down upon the paper he had been scribbling upon (it’s just a bunch of random lines and words that mean little when one isn’t privy to his wayward thoughts). He probably should have been a tad bit more concerned about the fact that she had come to memorize patterns in his behavior, but he had too much on his mind already. 

               “However, I’m fine.” That was a lie, and he doubted Tharja would believe it for even a moment. “I’m grateful for your concern, but it’s unnecessary.”   

[inmemoratum-blog]

royacia:

       after grima’s fall and everything had returned to normal, it was far too obvious that, among the shepherds, something seemed to be missing. however, none were able to put their finger on this missing something ( or someone ), so they allowed that uncomfortable gap fade away into the back of their consciousness. however, for someone as close to that lost puzzle piece as lissa, it never fully faded. as she traveled alone, that nagging feeling only increased now that she had so much time to think on her lonesome. 

    she can’t fully explain it, but that itch in the back of her mind only seems to increase in the presence of this stranger, and she wants to know why but is simply too afraid to ask. well, more like a stranger wouldn’t be able to answer, right? it seems odd, wanting to involve someone she had just met into her personal affairs. trusting she may be as both her personality and status as a previous member of the ever kind shepherds, but she isn’t a fool to allow such desperation to overtake her. 

    ( and yet, she can’t help but wonder why those robes, alongside that small smile she can barely catch a full glimpse of, give her a sense of peace now that she’s heard his voice, no matter how distorted it sounds ).

    ❝ o-oh… really? ❞ she relaxes ever so slightly, body leaning forward but feet never moving, as though to catch a better glimpse at the man’s facial expression. “that’s… weird. i’ve never heard of someone resembling a member of the royal house so closely… but, um, never mind that… you sound a little… sick. is your throat sore?” she shifts slightly, calling attention to the staff she carries upon back, resting alongside her axe. ever kind as she is, she offers a small smile, nervousness still apparent in her voice. 

    “um, i’m a healer! i can patch you up in a jiffy! … if you want…?”

       Time had not been kind to him; not when she and Chrom had found him in a field, without an identity to be had, what felt like centuries ago, and not now, when the pieces of himself that had once made him Ylisse’s trusted tactician (human) were slowly warping into little more than scales and memories that barely felt like they belonged to him anymore. And the way she leans forward in an attempt to catch a glimpse beneath the worn hood isn’t lost upon him (he can’t blame her; he sounds like the devil to himself, he can’t imagine how his voice must grate against her ears), so he lifts his chin sightly, hefty fabric draping over the right side of his face, but revealing just a bit more of his left (exposing odd scars where the Fell Dragon’s second and third sets of eyes would have been upon his own face and just the hint of his own, too red iris). He knows it won’t quell the nervous tone she speaks with (and how it kills him to hear it flow from her lips like he’s just a faceless stranger to her), but it’s all he can offer. 

         “It was a long time ago, forgive me, milady.” The words sound odd upon his tongue, and he wonders if it’s simply because it’s been years since he’s spoken to another on somewhat friendly terms or simply because the word ‘milady’ sounded foreign to him when it was aimed at someone he had once considered something akin to family. “She was like a sister to me, and I hope she finds herself well these days.” But the words sound like venom to him when they’re laced with Grima’s low growl, but, for the moment, the Fell Dragon has chosen to remain dormant; lingering beneath his tattered skin, watching, waiting. 

           Sharp fangs press into the mushy flesh of the inside of his mouth when she offers to heel him; chapped, bloodied lips pursing together into a thin line that’s something between a frown and a melancholy grin. He had almost forgotten how kind she had been (apparently war had not drained it from her like it had him), and for a moment the offer left him with a meek voice lodged between his throat and his heart (because how long had it been since someone had offered to help him rather than kill him; he can’t remember). And it stings more than it should; slices through the foggy memories he clings to like a knife splitting him from the only lifeline he has left. He had to force himself to breathe again; to not stumble over his words or chase after a past that has left him behind to rot. 

            “I’m grateful, and I do not doubt your skill, princess,” he smiles; still the title feels like a rock in his mouth, “But I’m afraid I can’t be healed.” He wishes he could be (but he tells himself it’s better this way; he deserves the hand fate has bolted to his being). “So please don’t waste your time or energy on me. There is so much more you could accomplish with it instead.” He reaches out a gloved hand; scales scratching against the frayed fabric like a beast trying to claw its way out of a cage, to gently ruffles her hair. He used to do it often (to reassure her, or to tease her when the time between battles had dragged on so very slowly); the familiar motion coming so naturally to him that it took a moment for his crowded brain to catch up with his arm, and he was quick to pull his hand away when he had realized what he had done.   

               “Forgive me, I’m afraid it’s an old habit.”    

[inmemoratum-blog]

madefate:

       He hasn’t fully bridged the distance – half behind the grove of trees that mark the edge of the pseudo clearing, Henry waits. There have almost always been voices, following him, whispering, guiding –  but he hadn’t realized how much they had ached until they were replaced in sound and spirit by those less shadowed and nebulous. Those he recognized, those he loves – when he tells himself to wait and see, it rings with the sweet and cautious timbre of Olivia, a gentle strain that he trusts. 

       ( he does not know why this changed has happened, but he has studiously avoided questioning it – how else will he keep them all with him, always ? ) 

       So he’s listening carefully when he picks up the way the answer stands out. We always have. There’s the swoop of noncomprehension – a catching of his attention that he can neither label nor comprehend – conclusions that don’t spin into nothingness because they never even start to form; he’s learned ( learning ) and he catches his breath, waits until the stranger explains himself to let his mind catch up. 

       ❛ — Oh ! Yeah, you’re not wrong. ❜ 

       A laugh lives at his lips, a little ghosting thing that huffs through each word like the lingering breezes bleeding from the end of summer. It’s entirely familiar, and also just as new. There’s no invitation spoken to cross the distance still between them, but a conversation continued is reason enough for Henry to decide that this means company. So he follows what his whims command and leaves the shelter of the trees’ heart for the open, sitting with all fluttering, feathery grace a few paces away, plainly in view. 

        — Both of them plainly in view. The moonlight is filtered through the forest’s canopy, dappled and sporadic and casting quietly glowing shadows, and the stranger is further obscured by his hood. But something – unsettled stirs in the pit of Henry’s stomach; sensitive, animal intuition rouses and though he cannot identify why his alarm bells have started ringing. Which isn’t a new phenomenon. It’d be far stranger if he could pinpoint just what, precisely, was off. 

       Regardless, the unease lingers. 

       ❛ So you’re like a philosopher ? Or maybe just an explorer ? ❜ 

       But so too lingers the laugh. It lights his voice, a little out of place in the quiet of the moonlit forest but not out of place within himself. His expression remains as unbothered and idly cheerful as it always has, half lidded eyelids never flickering from where they sit at half mast. 

      ( it’s other voices that tell him to pay attention to the details – Sir Freddy’s perhaps? perhaps. or something distant, unidentifiable. 

      the voice? the set of his shoulders? — the absence of the wolf’s warm weight, the chittering of the birds? he wonders and waits but it’s all as lackadaisically noted as he is wont to be. ) 

       ❛ ‘Cause it’s really rare that I ever see anyone out here – ‘specially when it’s as late out as this ! ❜ 

          Taut muscles contract with anticipation as seconds tick away without incident; each one feeling more like an hour than a moment, and even if he blames Grima for his growing unease, a part of him is not so drowned by past regret and longing to completely dismiss the idea of the other man being a threat to him. The rest of him; the mushy and exhausted and strangled fragments of his human existence gag at the thought because Henry had once been his comrade and, even with patches of skin that have melted into scales or with the weight of the Fell Dragon’s horns upon his skull, he shouldn’t doubt someone he had once considered a friend. Hadn’t Chrom practiced such dreadful compassion and empathy? Yet, not even an ounce of it had rubbed off on Robin after so many years. And he felt disgusted by it; he so desperately wanted to give into his humanity and dismiss the possibility of having to fight Henry should he find what lingers beneath the cloak, but he didn’t relax. Just another reason to add to his ever-growing list of why he had come to despise whatever it was he had become.

          He forces a hesitant smile onto his cracked lips at Henry’s eager words and the little huff of a laugh that leaves the other man’s lungs, but it’s largely obscured by the dark, thick fabric of his long hood. He supposed, even without scales or scars or bones peeking out from beneath his cloak’s protection, he looked strange; wandering within the forest in the dead of night with blood upon his clothes and a face one wouldn’t believe unless they saw it with their own eyes, and Robin was rather hellbent on preventing that from happening. Even so, he wanted to yield to the familiar lull of mundane conversation like he once had on sleepless nights when everyone had been too exhausted and battle-touched to actually fall asleep; gathered around some fire Frederick had started because Chrom was shockingly useless when it came to starting them, and telling inane stories until the sun had slugged its way back into the sky. 

            “I do try not to be,” he responds with some ease; raspy voice taking on a somewhat lighthearted tone (as airy as one could manage when their soul wasn’t backing up the words with the same enthusiasm as his battered lungs). And then Henry moves; shifting into the clearing like he had nothing at all to hide, his features illuminated beneath the moonlight. He feels his blood begin to boil; feels as ugly scales burn against his already marred skin, and hears Grima’s voice as it shouts words of warning into his already crowded head because now some of the distance has been closed. Because now Grima’s deemed this too much, and his rage had begun to seep into Robin’s bones. But he’s grown used to the agony within his chest and the voices within his head by now.    

             He had failed to keep the Fell Dragon down when he had been pursued by the knights, but this was different, so he ignored the dragon’s cries; pushed aside the way his body quaked with Grima’s rage, and stepped out into the clearing. He may come to regret to his choice yet; Grima was unbearable at times, but the dragon had already used much of its power to battle the soldiers and lacked the energy to do little more than whisper in the back of Robin’s mind as he sat down across from the other man. Henry had always been a loaded tome; unpredictable, and if that should be Robin’s undoing, he would gladly accept it (he wanted nothing more than to die at the hands of an old comrade, as if doing so would somehow ease the guilt he carried within his chest).   

            “I suppose I’m more akin to a philosopher. I’m afraid I have little heart for exploring unless there’s knowledge to be obtained from the act,” he admits, “That must be why I never seem to sleep, there’s always something to learn.” And he hated lying, but the words flow so easily from his lips because he wishes they true; he wishes he could pursue old legends and farfetched tales instead of isolating himself and hiding from the general public to keep even strangers out of Grima’s reach. 

            He knows he should tread with caution, and he is; a slip of the tongue is easy, swallowing it is hard, and Robin’s already discovered that once tonight. He’s in no mood to make another mistake again, yet he had made the choice to speak with Henry; had chose not to run, but rather remain simply because he knew Grima lacked the will to fight while drained if it was unneeded. And, perhaps, he was a fool; the thought was one that lingered in his mind, but he let it fester for the time being.       

             “It is odd, but it’s stranger still to let an opportunity to do something you enjoy slip away,” he pauses for a moment, before turning his attention back to Henry. “I could say the same about you, I live nearby, but have never run into you before.” He’s careful with his words, but curiosity remains (if Henry came to this forest to hunt him down; Grima would not sit so idle, and a part of Robin was afraid to find out; afraid of the Fell Dragon’s power even while the beast remained still within him). 

[inmemoratum-blog]

▸ you find yourself trying to adjust the arms of your chair, trying to move them this way and that, but they can never hug you tight enough. ▸ you find yourself falling apart in the hands of a clock at midnight but these hands keep moving and you can never catch up. ▸ you find yourself on your knees at the mouth of a river, gulping handfuls of dirty water as if this is your oasis. and you cannot stop drinking. ▸ you tell yourself that you’re not lonely. and yet.                                                                                      AND YET.

forneus. / the fire emblem series. / written by min.

[inmemoratum-blog]

our relationship has been formed. no matter how trivial the meeting and the incidents that follow may seem, a bond is made. even if it is for a short amount of time, a knot that has been tied does not unravel. it means that during your lifetime, everything that passes has meaning.

                                    ( madefate ; independent multimuse. ) 

[inmemoratum-blog]

floslaevus:

❀ ˟ ˟ 。

       Little did she know today was probably her worst day of her life. She had gotten lost with her pegasus no where to be found and due to her clumsiness she had twisted her ankle on the branch she had stumbled on. She cursed herself as she looked around, not exactly sure what to do, if the pegasus was around she could easily jump on it’s back and fly to her friends. Maybe … Someone could hear her voice? It was a long shot and could also land her in serious danger if bandits were around but the throbbing pain almost made her think it was worth it. It was worth a shot.

      ❝ Hello?! Is anyone out there?! Can anyone hear me?! ❞ 

        Sumia called only to hear the sounds of nature. No luck, of course, she had no choice but to scoot across the ground floor in pain to the closest town.

@inmemoratum

      He should have remained; a stranger sheltered by the safety of the thick forest that had thus far kept him parted from the rest of the world, but guilt was an overwhelming burden to add to his list of ever growing regrets. His memory was a vile thing; always leading him forward and pushing him to throw caution to the wind when caution was the only thing that kept him so far from the nearest town. But he had spotted the girl limping through the tangled woods, and had tried to ignore; to let her struggle far away from him. But he couldn’t; she may no longer remember him, but he could so vividly recall all of the allies he had once fought beside; all of the comrades he had been so willing to die for during a war that felt so old and distant to him it was almost nothing more than a dream now. 

       So he yanked his hood over his head, wrapping it over the horns atop his skull and pulling it down over his face; no matter who she had been in the past, he couldn’t trust her not to attack him now. Not when Grima’s presence within him was so painfully obvious that even a child could have claimed him the monster he harbored in his bones (and he wouldn’t risk her safety; wouldn’t dare allow her to agitate Grima when he knew it meant the Fell Dragon’s rage would boil over).   

          He has to stop himself from calling out her name as walks towards her, instead he forces out what little he can offer her, “You should be careful, your shouting could endanger you,” he warns; bandits often lingered in the area, looking to grab the bounty for his head. “But if you’re in need of aid, I may be able to provide some assistance, though I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer. I can at least guide you out of this forest.” He would get her to safety, and that would be it; he couldn’t risk anything more.     

[inmemoratum-blog]

royacia:

@inmemoratum

       how should she put it? she feels… uncomfortable? uneasy? as though something was about to pounce at her, but she isn’t sure what? yeah, maybe that’s it. there’s an aura about the stranger she can’t place her finger on, but she feels wary nonetheless. ( and suddenly, she misses those days she traveled alongside her brother, because while strong now, she is alone and she feels she would shatter due to a mere touch due to her fear ). 

    ❝ h-hey… um… i don’t want any trouble or anything… it’s not like i was staring or anything, okay? ❞

       He hadn’t meant to stare; hadn’t meant to allow his ever racing mind to become caught up in past memories that should have meant nothing to by now, but his heart was such a pathetic thing sometimes and he couldn’t look away. Unlike her, though, his thick hood obstructed his eyes, drowning the horns upon his head with purple fabric and hiding the dark scales that sat beneath his all too red eyes. And he hates how his pointed, scruffy ears perk up at the fear radiating from her body; hates how he can smell it on her, but despises the greedy hunger that rattled his bones as he picks up on it the most. So he purses chapped lips, and swallows around the taste of ash and blood in his throat to quell Grima’s persistent presence as it was caged within him.

         A part of him, the morbid fragment of his cluttered mind, wonders if she had ever felt like something was missing from her life; he had seen her as something akin to a sister after he had joined the Shepherds, but those days were long gone now, and he was nothing more than a monster unfit to walk the same earth as those he once loved. And another part of him, the one that’s so tired of fighting Grima’s curse, is so grateful she can’t remember him because at least then she’ll never know the burden and shame that drags him down now. 

         He forces a smile onto his lips; it’s a gentle, fleeting thing that can just barely be seen beneath his hood. “It’s all right, I apologize if I startled you, it was not my intention. You merely - look like someone I used to know.” His voice is raspy and hoarse; one can almost hear Grima’s strained snarl with each word that slips from his dry mouth.