#♡┆◜ tytania ◞

[nocentis]

let her kiss his brand...

He sees her in the way that bees see flowers; the way that leaves see sunshine.

╳┆Honey spilled over the horizon and painted the high tide. Gilded fingers twisted into the amber silks draped upon the throne of cloud, wrapped them up in their glittering palms, around their wrists, and the day's ruler hoisted themselves slowly to claim, leaving blood and syrup in their wake. Their white robes did little to shield their pride; their radiance. There was something to be said about that immeasurable beauty and the karmic toll of viewing it. The price of a look, one held long enough to truly see, was to surrender the gift of future sight. There was something to be said about the periphery. Something about those colors, that warmth, that marvel, and how maybe close enough should be good enough, and why couldn't it be? Something about the cost of love, something about moderation, and maybe something about the comfort of cowardice.

Winter and Spring began their waltz, slowly slinking ��round and ‘round with fingers interlaced high above their heads, eyes locked in lovers’ snares. Winter, condemned to play the role of callousness; of indiscriminate reaping, and Spring, the tender, the nurturer, tasked with the labor of rebirth. They found their compromise in the snowdrop’s bloom; in its frozen dew. They found it in the chill of the morning and the warmth of the afternoon, in the cool breeze, in the jewel-toned sky and the first blades of grass yet bitten by frost.

It must’ve been love, he thought, for what else could compel the harsh hand of Winter, cold and cruel as it was, not to strike, but to dance? It must've been love, he thought, because when Winter slipped from her grasp, Spring, in her loneliness, would begin to weep. Beautiful things bloomed from her pain, and so her pain was expected, demanded again and again. It must've been love that drove Winter to destroy those sorrow-sewn fields so that Spring would come back to him comfortably, and so just for a little while, they could find peace together.

Today, they were dancing.

╳┆The swell in his chest shined through his broadened shoulders, the length of his neck, the lift of his chin. Still, the habit of treading brazenly, maskless, through stone-laid streets, was one he’d yet to pick up. His formal pardon hadn’t barred the eyes from prying, and it certainly hadn’t muted the whispers. If anything, they’d only grown louder, more opinionated, so he'd yet to find comfort in the breeze's naked palms.

The repetitive swish and clang of his garb and the thud of his armored boots against the cobbles were familiar enough to become mute to the mind, like absorbed by his black-bleeding subconscious. Gone with it, the songbird’s tune, the whistle of the breeze, the sway of the trees. But not today. No, today he heard it—the way the wind howled in harmony with the river’s steady rush, the beat of his own pace, the trill tittering above, the cheerful chatter of life—like it was his first time. In a way, he supposed it was. Every other time he’d walked this path, he’d walked it with closed eyes and wool-stuffed ears, in thrall to the rotten echoes of his own mind. But not today. No. Today, his chin held high, as his spirits did.

He must have looked every bit the manic fool that morning, sliding through the doors of the Fairy Tail guild at the first wink of sunlight, sporting that glued-on grin he'd still yet to unstick, with nothing more to present than a pair of mismatched daffodils and their attached note. Thankfully, Mirajane and her sister, Lisanna, were already in-house preparing for the day ahead, undoubtedly taking advantage of the peace and quiet of the empty hall while they still had the opportunity. Though naturally surprised to see him so elated, they were both pleasant in their greetings and eagerly agreed to deliver his message (though he was nearly certain they were teasing him about his intentions with their fair lady Erza).

His cheer was met equally and enthusiastically. Both sisters were practically teeming with glee by the time he turned to leave, giggling and covering their mouths like they knew something the rest of the world was yet privy to. While he found their giddiness puzzling, he surely welcomed the departure from gloom; from the doom-written reeds he so often dragged in. It was nice, he thought, to share weightless words, to have a laugh, to venture beyond Winter's shadow into the first light of Spring.

From there, he'd practically skipped to his next task. Never in so many years of travel had he received such bemused faces from passersby. He'd actually paused once to check his skin, just to make sure he wasn't actually glowing. Heaven knew how long it'd been since he felt something so carefree as genuine excitement. Long enough that he found it uncontainable. Long enough that it felt like sunshine in his chest, crawling up his throat, bursting through his teeth.

Mrs. Ito was no exception to the day's pleasantries. She'd always been kind in the short time he'd known her. Recently widowed, she decided she had too much house and not enough home, in her own words, so she moved in with her eldest son, his wife, and their children. He'd met with them all one evening for dinner (Mrs. Ito wanted to know to whom she was handing over her home), and even after stories were shared and intentions were laid, he was met gently with understanding smiles, warm hands holding his own, and Mrs. Ito's hushed, "It's time to go home, son."

When he arrived to pick up the keys—his keys to his house—she greeted him fondly, like they'd always known one another. Her son stood in the doorway as he exchanged the gift of home with a box of market candies, his smile slowly melting like he'd finally found the bitter side of sweet. He'd waved goodbye with a promise to visit again soon, but as he turned towards his new tomorrow, he missed the pinch in Mrs. Ito's brow and the tears that followed. He missed the shake of her shoulders as her son ushered her back inside and the red-rimmed eyes that lingered on his back.

His elation carried him through thinning streets and into the countryside. Horse-drawn carriages passed him by with blinders on, kicking up dust and bouncing rocks off their spokes as they went. The folks tending their land paused to spare him a sprinkler's glance. Just around the bend, there sat a humble brick house on a quaint piece of land. Its stone pathway stood out in the sparsely grown, mostly browned lawn, and it drew a path straight towards that painted-red front door. The very same one that he was now standing in front of, staring at.

The key poised betwixt his fingers had been left to steep in his pocketful of sunshine long enough for the heat to transfer, and now it was burning, blistering his skin, and it felt something like rejection. Like the soul of the land had its hands on his shoulders and was shoving him backward. Like he wasn't meant to be here. He was never meant to have this.

But he wasn't ready to give it up just yet.

He tapped the door with a single knuckle, just to see if it'd turn to ash. It held steady, materially, before him, just the same as it ever looked. Its bricks spoke no threat of crumble, its roof showed no sign of collapse, and yet none of it truly felt real. Even as his head bowed and his forehead pressed into that cool crimson, even as he traced the ridges of the keys in his palm, even then, he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

A moment of silent prayer. A deep, grounding breath. Eyes open, back straight, he finally found the will to turn the key. The door slowly creaked open, allowing light to pour in through the front door.

His lingering joy was a sweet wine on the brink of spoil, turned to vinegar in his gut. The morn's candied shell cracked between his teeth and its well-concealed bitterness flooded his tongue like it had been waiting for the opportunity all along. It leaked from the corners of his still-smiling mouth, even as his lips began to twitch; even as heat brimmed his eyes and tears threatened to spill. He stood in the doorway, still, watching the walls of that front room stretch higher and higher as the moment dragged on, like he was waiting for something—something like Karma—to come along and destroy it all, strip it all away; to take from him again, as he'd taken from so many others.

He forced himself to step inside, to turn, to close and lock the door behind himself.

And then it was quiet. Devastatingly so. Gone were the wind, the leaves, the birdsong and the horses' trot. Static rushed in to fill its place, skating rings around his ears, and his periphery began to blur, his chest to ache—oh, he felt ill, and the dam threatened to burst, and his throat tightened until he audibly choked. A hand rose to cup his neck, and another to cover his mouth, stifling his upward bubbling sob as heat rose to cloud his vision. He sunk to his knees as the first tears fell, crushed by the weight of overwhelm, one hand scratching helplessly against hardwood while the other heeled at his bleeding eyes.

How audacious could he be? Already living on borrowed breath, daring to walk the path of the benevolent man. Now he dared to seek normalcy for himself, to smile gleefully while so many still woke in a cold sweat, in terror, at the sight of him, and others would never wake at all. A sick joke. He hardly deserved a proper burial, much less a place to lay his head, and yet he wanted it still.

He turned and sat with his back pressed against the front door, and he tried to find comfort in the nothing. He tried to find comfort in the emptiness, the darkness, the hollow and desolate, but the shadows had autonomous hands. Those mangled fingers were rotten down to blackened bone and had mouths where their nails should've been, and they'd been picking at the threads of his mind's drawn curtain, picking, pulling, unspooling, until they made their hole big enough to climb through. When they finally reached him, they were dripping ink like blood, wrapped up in memories' silk that they used to bind him where he was.

How long had it been? He was a child when he'd last called a house like this his home, before the raid. If only his mother and father could see him now, what would they say? Would they smile? Would they cry? Would they be proud of their son, even to this day, with all years considered, and would they love him still? Would they hand their heads in shame, or would they lift their chins in disgust? He never got the chance to know them well enough to answer those questions with any certainty.

His head thumped against the wall, tears trailing unbidden as he stared through the ceiling. His breath shook as he exhaled, voice straining when he pleaded directly to God, "Please," his face curled inward and he nearly choked, "It's more than I deserve, but please, may I have this?"

But it wasn't God who'd condemned him. It wasn't God who'd damned his soul to roam, so God need not answer.

The silence was a swarm that eventually overtook the sounds of his wet misery. The numbness accompanying that insidious peace was a welcome shift. It gathered over his shoulders and draped from him, robe-like, as he finally rose from the floor, intent on washing his face.

A few short steps brought him to the bathroom. He blindly palmed at the wall until he found the switch. Light sprung from the top down, bathing the back of his hand as he turned on the sink. He let it run over his fingers until warm and watched years-old blood run off and stain the porcelain. The water he gathered in his palms was soon spilled over the flesh of his face and beyond his sleeves.

While the salt may have washed clean, the evidence of his deluge clung to the skin beneath his eyes and around his nose in Pollock pink. That much became obvious the very second he met his own glassy stare, though its juxtaposition to the hot iron's bite made its consequence seem all the more fleeting. The tips of his fingers idled against his still-dripping skin, at first tracing the risen path, then covering it. He tried to imagine what he might've looked like without it. Would he look more youthful? Would he look kind when he smiled? Would children be less afraid when he waved to them?

He supposed it didn't matter. The choice was never his to have. That glowing sunset crest lived inside of his eyelids, lurking there, daring him to blink. Within each lapse, he saw the devil's eyes. He saw split-curl smiles and broken teeth outlined in stolen blood. He heard the devil's laugh, shrill and gleeful and giddy, and felt its dank breath against his neck, and he felt its hands curling around his ankles, his wrists, his arms and legs, puncturing his skin with nails of obsidian glass, and he felt it climb onto his chest, crack his ribs, and he felt his face begin to sweat, even though he was so, so cold.

It was so, so cold. White cold. And he was awake. Wide-eyed, shocked mute. His skin shrieked as its moisture fled, and it began to peel away, to bubble and blister and burn—God, it burned, and the smell—

Knock-knock, knock!

His visitor's early arrival nearly sent him out of his skin. He quickly turned the water off and killed the light, and he hoped that his sorrows stayed in the drain depths where they belonged.

The door swung inward, and she was there, waiting patiently, graciously, for him like she always had. His breath turned to dust in his lungs.

In her hands, those inverted daffodils dressed in yellow and white, not a petal out of place. Gold spilled over her crown, revealing that halo he'd always known was there. The breeze tossed her scarlet flames about semblant of Venus, and rosey lips sat in their gentle curve, smiling softly at him, yet before they could split to spill a greeting, he'd already begun to pull her towards him. As he wrapped himself around her, his eyes began to burn again, and the second he felt her hand at his back, returning his embrace, he broke, and the tears spilled forth once more. His head fell to rest against her armored shoulder, and through the rain, he began to laugh.

She pulled away to view him at arms' length, mouth slightly parted as though a question had come to peer through her teeth. He wiped at his face with tremors in his hands, chuckling softly when Erza finally shoved out, "Tears?"

"It's silly, really," he holds up the keys, "I'm overwhelmed."

It didn't take her long to put it together.

Warmth graced his jaw with the weight of a whisper, so faint he'd thought surely that he'd imagined it. That is, until it struck again, soft and sweet against his cheek, beneath his eye, his forehead. His eyes blinked open as she sunk back to her heels, bashfully peering up at him through the veil of her lashes; waiting for him to do something, anything.

The raucous buzzing faded into a melodic hum like the swarm had finally found its queen.

His blood sang as it rushed red-hot through his shoulders, crawled up his neck, and began burning its way through the skin of his face. The ear-popping clarity of his thought-storm's sudden abandon left him staring mindlessly with eyes much too wide and jaw much too lax, narrowly remembering to breathe, until her shy expression began to melt into something more reminiscent of unease, like she was preparing to flee.

Perhaps a touch too quickly, he grabbed her hand, careful to keep his grip loose enough that she could pull away if she wanted. Slowly, surely, his opposite hand reached to tuck her hair behind her ear, and his palm cupped her cheek in a silent plea not to retreat from him. A silent plea to stay here, right here, in this moment, in his grasp, just a little while longer.

And she did. She stayed. She smiled gently, warmly. Her head fell to rest against his chest and she leaned into his sway. There, in the silence, they found their rhythm. They began to dance.

"Welcome home, Jellal." -------------------------------------------------------------------------- @mamorigami

[nocentis]

come back..

IM SO SORRY ITS BEEN SO LONG!!

[nocentis]

Jumps in his arms before bowling a raspberry at @tytania

"I do have two arms... I am very strong."

[nocentis]

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