#➵ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄.┊It was love’s absence that let me know how much love mattered.

[asphuxia]

/ * WHAT IS THE NATURE OF THIS DANCE CALLED MEMORY?

CW. suicide, death, self harm, general heavy / violent / graphic writing. 

with thanks to friends that encouraged & helped read over it for me. :) please read it here for its original form as tumblr does not support my formatting endeavours. thank you!

YOU REMEMBER her.

                       the way she talked about you, her

                                                                                  smiling face

  fingers curled through hair

  her hand on the back of your head

    ( she cradles you as though you had never done anything wrong, )

                                                                                            it wasn’t your fault!,

                                             to the fractals littering the floor, each transparent

                                                           gleam stained carmine; YOU broke this, 

                                                      you grind your feet into the glass ——

       ( you bleed. it is not the first time. but in her arms, there is no pain. )

there is a silence, a loving sort of wordlessness, 

 ( —- as though love could be more than an act of service, so mundane as a touch ;; )

and there is an unspeakable comfort in her embrace, as though you are meant to be here.

                 you raise your head to look at her 

                eyes, mouth, nose /

               the upturned corners of her lips

                                       ( her hair is just like yours, )

                                       ( she looks like your mother — hel? 

                                           no: she does not smile as sweetly, not anymore. )

           you blink. her eyes are blue.

           your foreheads touch. her eyes crinkle in a way you know.

                       .__ …. ___ ? are you my—

                                                                                                  do you know her ?

                                             .      .   .  . . . .….. THIS SINKING FEELING … ?

you want to call her something. you want to tell her something; i don’t know what. you can listen to her heartbeat through her shoulder as though it is the crackle of a hearth. she feels so, very much, like love.

                     ( but it is an odd thought, to believe you might know what that is. )

thin arms wrap around her neck — whenever had you remembered being this small ? more fragile than you already are —- you shift into her, savour this moment and savour this warmth, fleeting as all things ever are for you;  and then, that once gentle weight is replaced by something else. heavy; warm, comfort in the form of a body stained red that seeps through white fabric, holding on and holding on and still ——

her voice is so soft. so gentle. eir knows it. she knows it. she knows

                                                                                        “ ausra, my ... “

                       ( ‘ ausra ’ ?  )

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     — daughter ?

                             she holds her close and shuts her eyes.

                         (as if that would make this moment last forever.)

                                                            …

                       I REMEMBER a field of flowers, soft beneath my feet. running, chasing, but this is a past that does not exist  

        I REMEMBER the taste of iron, rising through my throat like bile. you remember that your heart stops before you can spit it out

                                                                                                       BLUE SKIES ..

                                     I REMEMBER a kingdom of white; our smiling people. this is a place that you do not know, this is a people you do not know

          WHITE WINGS ..

                                                                I REMEMBER on that day, i had wanted to tell you something. when was this? who are you… ? did i 

                              I REMEMBER askr and embla, fallen to ruin. this was your fault, was it not...? when you had once been — 

                                                                     GENTLE SMILES … ?

I REMEMBER giving mother a flower. she smiled, and i was so happy. THIS MEMORY CANNOT BE REAL IT CANNOT BE REAL YOU HELD YOUR MOTHER YOU ARE HOLDING HER IN YOUR ARMS AND SOON YOU TOO WILL BE  — 

                                I REMEMBER that once upon a time,

                   YOU BELONGED TO A FAMILY. YOU HAD A LIFE.

                                         she blinks; eyes half-lidded. the visions dissolve just as souls do; into dust, into air— eir sinks into the dying embrace as though it is her duty to hold onto wraiths. ( her fingers curl into harmless claws into the back of the dress. ) she has spent a long time waiting. wondering. wanting. but as all things are — as the opportunity of life is — she is never quite granted rightful time with it. and eir has spent a very long time growing tired of the ordeal.

            the woman ( … her mother ? not hel. not hel. ) is gone, replaced by the chill of something only slightly more than empty air— she knows this touch better. it is the one she knows most, even blind, even in the recedes of her mind; her mother’s embrace is second, only, to death’s caress. but perhaps the two are the same.

the former is better, eir decides. at least in that, there was fulfillment. 

                                                   or so she says, but the latter is ever more compassionate.

                                                                                         .. oh, what she would give for hel to hold her again.

 ( she leans into the crook of her mother’s neck. she remembers the feeling, the gratification. the way her heart pounds in her ears when it should have stopped. guilt stirs in the bottom of her stomach — i should not be as eager as i am i should not enjoy this at all and yet, 

                                                                                       she does not mind the way                                                                                                   her life pours out                                                                                             from the slit in her neck. 

         the blood pools; it dyes white fabric red with little remorse— eir can feel it trickle down her throat and crawl, uselessly, back up to her knees. if she squints hard enough, she can see herself in it. and, for a moment, hel will be in that reflection, too. 

                                                   she stares, a little longer. as though the woman in her arms would morph back into the person she had been before. 

                                                         (she does not, ultimately. and in the end, eir is only staring at her own blood as it darkens;  a mirage all too indifferent to the life that escapes it.)

eir does not think that she remembers this.                          

                          ( but the truth is that she does not remember much at all.)

she stares at the cup in her hands ( the memory. the mirage. this bloodied familiarity. ) and watches her reflection shift, paint a circle of light in the confines of her hands — it returns to her, always. once, she had wondered if her reflection would disappear entirely. there is so little of her that is left alive that it would have been nothing more than expected— eir looks up.

             ...    thank you, mother.

                                                                                                             hel smiles. 

                    eir presses her lips against the rim, and tilts her head backwards. 

                       ( do you recall? the sensation of coughing up your heart as it lurches up your throat——

ah. but you can certainly remember the way you 

convulse

                        as it sinks in, like fire

                                                                        in your throat.                        

                                                                                            in your veins.

                                         the cup shatters between your fingers. 

                                                           ...

the crisp touch of iron against her skin is a sensation that greets her before light ( or so you can delude yourself into thinking ) can fill her eyes; before she feels herself breathe. ( these lungs do not stutter in the same way as the pairs that came before it — but how can she know that..? ) she watches the chains dance impassionately around her feet — what is the use of shackling down a ghost ? — as her vision focuses. 

 the blood that stains her dress is hers.

               ( it has always been hers. it will always be. )

        the fabric is all too loose around your frame. you are ill, more

 diseased than one should be 

 you are so thin.

                             the flames lick at your skin as though you are made of coal

                             after the many times

                             you have returned to ash.

                             ( the searing fire you make of your death does not draw the eyes of anyone, even as you swear that muspell is no hotter than this. )

                                                                                                                          you gasp.

                                                            is that your head that rolls away from you?

                                                                    she blinks.

                                    lyfjaberg sits idly in her palms. 

                                                    she does not need to look up to know what to do with it.

—— the blade sinks deeper into her chest, pale fingers curl around the handle as her hands tremble ( … don’t you want to be A GOOD DAUGHTER ? ) and the crimson that spills leaves her unflinching, sapphire eyes searching ever upward (  i only want to serve you ! ) to a face that does not smile; a face that does not love her. her grip on the blade grows tighter; deeper, push it in and maybe her lips will curl, ever so slightly, upwards; finally! content with you, —— her vision swims / will you hurry up ? the second heart forms in the confines of her ribs ; TO SURVIVE YOU MUST KILL THE YOU INSIDE OF ME / AGAIN! AGAIN! AGAIN! ; she cannot stop shaking. chest rises and falls around the dagger, around the home it has made of the hole in her heart, if you would only force yourself to just

                                                                                                                                                        _..     ..         .      

                             lyfjaberg is in her hands. her trembling hands. 

              lyfjaberg is the blade that                                offers her mercy.

                                                    ┊ 

                                                    ┊ 

                                                    ┊ 

                                                     wrests a spear from her neck.

                                     THERE IS SOMETHING VERY WRONG. the helian — no, no! that is not what i am. ( how is the feeling so resolute, so sure? ) but who is — glances downwards, in the way the light catches upon the blade that flirts with her collar; the sharp spark of metal against metal. 

— her stomach roils in a way she has forgotten it could.

she recognises the blade. but eir does not recognise the way she wields lyfja, nor when fensalir had ever been pointed towards her like that.

                                                       she parries without thinking. her body is a      

                                                        renegade to her own mind.

she moves deftly; the spear redirected, lyfjaberg scraping against the shaft. the rasp of the dagger against something other than flesh rings; parry, thrust! eir watches lyfja fly towards the torso ( WHAT ARE YOU DOING ….? ) watches her hands disobey every cry of her mind — but surely, these are her hands, if not anyone else’s— watches, still, as fensalir fails to defend its wielder. the steel edge rips through fabric, through skin; eir cannot remove her gaze from the way lyfjaberg offers no compassion.

                   they say that light is composed of every colour

                                                                                               but in this moment, there is only red.

her weight shifts; fensalir does not falter even as the woman commanding it bleeds— you are kind, always, to your life; to the memoir that is your spirit — and the cut whistles through empty air. her head spins, every pulse a mistimed step (her heels sink into the mud / her leg rises upwards / to slam into her enemy’s side. ) as blood rushes through alabaster skin. eir watches as her opponent’s chest heaves, as the woman’s movements grow sluggish;she wants to cry.the soil shoots out from under her. don’t give up, please, please, please, please, please

                                             ( fensalir thrusts forward. lyfjaberg rises to meet it. )

                                              there is something familiar about this moment. this place, her bloodied face, the feeling of two worlds torn apart by one single  — —           

                                                              .

                                                              .

                                                              .

                                                                                        SHE REMEMBERS that this is the day the light died.

                                                                     …...….. SHA       ... RE            ..NA ?

                             but there is nothing familiar in the way that she kills it herself.

the blade twists in its place, wrenched within her beloved’s stomach. eir does not want to feel the way the princess’s fingers curl into the flesh of her arm. sharena leans (falls?) against eir’s shoulder.

           she steps aside. 

                                           WHAT HAVE YOU DONE ? 

                             what was necessary to pay the price of love.

 the silence is —

                              filled with her dying breaths, like a song

                                                                                                             — empty. 

lyfjaberg slips from the sharena’s body as if she had been, momentarily, its sheathe— her knuckles are white around the handle, but unseen beneath stained gloves. eir forces herself to breathe. 

                                                 but she cannot will herself to look as she dies.

she cannot will herself to believe that it is she who drives the

blade into her light, her life, and invites the darkness to swallow the sun whole.

                     ( you turn away. but is it you who chooses to walk? )

her steps fall soundlessly upon askr’s ruined lands, upon the border between hel; until she is returned to her mother’s court. the dead watch her as though she is revered; eir hardly notices — perhaps she is too busy dispelling the image that lingers in her mind. but then, she is at hel’s heel, kneeling ( she always has /  it seems for a moment she always will  ), head bowed low. 

      “princess sharena is dead.” she feels her throat dry. 

                     i killed her. 

                                                                                            hel knows.

         her mother hums, satisfied (is that what it took?). “and of the queen and her son?” 

“retreating, into embla. that realm’s princess has not fallen yet. they intend to use angrboða’s heart.” eir hears the words leave her before she speaks them ( she does not recognise herself ). “they will fail.”

                                                          this is what mother wants to hear.

                         hel reaches forward, and tilts her daughter’s face upwards. death is smiling. 

eir rises to her mother’s side. but it is with a deep sense of pride; one that she does not think to have ever known.

she stands, for a moment— basking in the euphoria that is mother’s acknowledgement — before the ground starts to change, rolling out beneath her feet; eir watches as the scene fades and askr crumbles ( for there is no need for it to die a second time ). instead, a field of green replaces the ruins of that dead land — this is not askr, even within the memories of her distorted mind. white towers sprout upwards, firm and gleaming as though they are composed of nacre; somebody is reaching out to her. father? ( did she have one? surely... ) white wings span out from behind him. eir instinctively touches her ears. 

  she steps towards him.

                                                                            — he disappears.

what had once been the circle of his arms transforms into a throne ( it is not composed of skull and bones, she notes ); the crest is not one eir can ever admit to have known — but it invokes a feeling that rings through her her sternum, as though it is of her blood. 

                                                                        your true parents were royalty, 

                                                                          blessed by the dragon of life. 

                                                                                         i slaughtered them, 

                                                                                    when you were young,

                                                                            and claimed you for myself.

her birth mother ( i am sorry i could never learn your name, ) urges her to sit — no! not yet, eir laughs, and the sound is not alone. her mother takes her hand; they run outside of the white walls, towards that rolling flower field— she breathes and feels alright. 

           was this something she had done, as a child? 

                                       eir remembers the flowers. she remembers the smiles.

she’s pulled forward by a loving hand, into that warm embrace — please, just a second more — as they tumble into the grass. verdant blades lick at her face. eir laughs; her eyes close, gently, shut.

if only time could stop like this, forever — she knows it can’t, but opening her eyes would force her to acknowledge that — her inhales come slower, not with the gentle embrace of drifting off but of holding on, trying to memorize the sensation of being so close, so near to touching but not needing to cross that distance, because where is it going?ever is the nothingness that paints this mundane surreality pressing in, against her from all sides, and it is not suffocating, it is not living, truly— but existing in this moment, with her.

       she shifts to lie on her side. 

                                                     a sigh lifts her reticence pulling away as sanguine light retreats from the sky at dusk.

                                                 …? 

                                                     this place… 

when this is all over, we’ll go back to askr.

we’ll go stargazing on my favourite hill. all right?

                                                                                         … do you promise?

she looks to sharena's beaming face. if this was not a worthy purpose to defy death for, what was?

                                                           .

                                                           .

                                                           .

                             I SAW THE WORLDS RISE AND FALL AWAY.

… i was happy.

                                     i was happy. 

      as if existing in itself was an achievement and that such a thing as insignificant as that could make her smile — 

                                                        …  i was…

reluctant to let go, of the shadows she cast— facing darkness equally establishes the presence of light— of the shape of the water you poured between my fingertips. it cleansed me... i poisoned it? 

                                       media vita in morte sumus;

                                    in the midst of our lives, we die.

and it’s a feeling she knows. it’s a feeling that leaves her helpless, as though she can all but drown. she wants her raucous heart to stop beating, for blood to stop flowing through traitorous veins, for her mind not to tolerate another aching thought and all she can hear in her ears is the roar of a past(s) that did not happen and could not happen 

you                                                              forfeit

                                                                          joy, patience,

               winsome lives

                                    to

                                                                           acrid recognition 

                                                                                  like a fool;

                                                                                  played by fate.     

                          for a final time, eir wants 

                                                                       to die.

[albeinn]

He had promised to find her.

No matter what shadows would bind her, no matter where the world might take her— every fleeting thought was spent tailing after, arms outstretched. If, for every moment, she would be ripped away from him again, his legs would be used to running. Into a stride, right after, knowing she had her hands reaching out to him just the same way. Always, like the moon and a star; reflecting off one another.

It just so happened that the world had given him one night— and that was more than he could ever ask for, really— to see her in the essence of every shining star the sky harboured. One night to see her as no princess or queen, no simple stranger in a dazzling dress but— the love of his life. Celica. And Alm could only hope that he reflected even a speck of that light; vigorous, mighty flame, yet ever gentle, as she were.

In the hours before, he had been as he always was; somehow, still stiff-shouldered in the presence of so many ball-goers. The night was young, a small thing in the making; streaks of orange, hints of a dying day lighting up what was left to outgrow. He had found her, then; watching by the balcony. And it’s almost a nostalgic sight, if not reversed— how they had come to find one another, a reunion long needed, as the sun set. In twirling digits (perhaps in nervousness? It seemed he always found his heart jittering at the bare sight of her) lies a flower; untarnished, white orange blossom. A flower the two of them knew well.

Now, hours later, with the sun evidently replaced by every twinkling star that glimmered in the dark, he finds her again. By the same balcony ledge, gazing upwards. Once blazing grace dimmed by the weariness in her legs; a moment of respite, still, from all those hours spent dancing in front of a watching crowd. And perform they did— they had lost by the bare mark, after all— but it was enough to become a source of exhaustion. Slow steps; Alm moves closer.

“I’ve missed you,” He says, almost as quickly as she turns to face him. As the words leave his lips, his chest empties; like a hollow admittance. Alm never realised how much he had needed to say it until he did. “It didn’t occur to me how much until I saw you again. I’ve—“ the words stop by the hollow of his throat, threatening to spill onto his tongue. For a moment, Alm hesitates, unsure. His hands reach out to hers; he holds it in his palm, preceding a gentle squeeze. “— we’ve changed, haven’t we? I don’t even remember being able to... hold you like this. I mean,” gentle hands come up to cup her face, leaning in to press his cheek against her head. “Yeah. Gods. I’ve missed you, so much.”

“One last dance?” A plead— Alm all but nearly swallows his words. “For tonight?”

As her hand slips into his, he leads her back inside; gaze nothing but loving, spilling onto the features of his face. Pulled into the first steps of their dance, he leads her. Easy, slow— tender as he possibly can be.

“I love you, Celica.” Alm whispers, with a heart that knew no more than her, and her smiling face. “Thank you, for loving me.”

gift for @seraphiia! commission artwork by dewborb_art.