#just imagining the voices of the court harmonizing together in their shared acceptance of the truth gives me goosebumps

[yakool-foolio]

The Great Gateway To The Truth has gotta be one of my favorite tracks in the Ace Attorney series' OSTs, as difficult as it is to pick favorites from these games. It sounds like a choir piece without the literal choir if ya get what I'm saying. It instrumentally conveys the wailings and hums of many voices crying out in unison. It flows with a delicate balance of betrayal and acceptance, as everyone inside the courtroom is forced to reconcile with the sudden, searing pain of the deep wounds they're tearing open in such short time. Years and years of agony rotting the hearts of those struck down by the powerful impact of the true Professor: Stronghart. The ringing of the bells for one small moment reminds us who suffers most, as those bells chime for Kazuma alone. Nearing the song's conclusion and bringing about a reprise of the Professor's leitmotif, it signifies Kazuma's sole purpose in life ever since his father passed--the promise to avenge and end the insurmountable suffering of his family and all left to decay in the Professor's wake.

It is then that this song embodies Stronghart in his final moments standing tall in the judge's place. They all look up to him, but never has he felt so low, sinking into his own grave.

[enkelimagnus]

Flowers - Clizzy

Femslash February : Prompt 6 : Flowers

This is a continuation of yesterday’s Candlelight

If Lady Herondale had one quality, it was her liking for sumptuous intricate gardens. To both Isabelle and Clarissa’s taste, the old woman was otherwise sour and unpalatable. She kept an iron fist on the young ladies that visited, so only when she was asleep in the afternoon could they all run into the gardens.

Today was different. Today, Isabelle and Clarissa were permitted to run into the gardens, for Lady Herondale received their mothers, and though she saw their youthful excitement with a bit of annoyance, she had no power over them.

The only rule was for them to at least appear for a cup of tea. And so they did. For the good hour that it took their mothers to finish their first cup, the young lovers sat in that room, stealing candy out of the trays, and filling themselves on delicious treats.

Isabelle’s dress was powdery pink, from head to toe, with darker accents of red that her mother disapproved of. She was quite fond of this dress, for it highlighted perfectly the darkness of her hair, and the redness of her cheeks.

Across from her, Clarissa was earing indigo and blue, colors that she prefered, and colors that looked ravishing on her fair skin and fiery hair. Hair that had been tamed and hidden under a hat, this once. It seemed like Lady Jocelyn had been more successful in taming her daughter’s spirit than Lady Maryse.

Finally, Lady Herondale put her cup down. Isabelle only waited a second before standing and stepping towards Clarissa’s chair. She took her hand and turned to the ladies. “We must go now, my ladies. We shall be back in sure time.” Clarissa sent the ladies a winning smile. Lady Jocelyn nodded. “Go and play, girls.”

“Thank you, Mother.” The redhead beamed.

They stepped gingerly towards the door, taking care of their skirts as it closed eventually behind them. Immediately, for they had not stepped away, they heard Lady Herondale’s irritated tone.

“Jocelyn, Maryse. Your daughters are too old to play in the gardens. It is the last time I allow such pleasantry outside of my jubilees.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes as they finally stepped away. “I will not hear another story of Lady Lydia and her marriage.” She huffed, and kept her hand in Clarissa’s. The other woman sighed.

“We cannot do a thing else than wait for them to be done. But I agree. How sad is it for poor Lydia to be married and widowed so young?” Clarissa wished for this to never happen to her. Jonathan was charming enough for her to pretend for a short moment, but a marriage? And a mourning? Not only would he mourning colors not suit her complexion, but wasting her young life away crying over someone she would never love…

She kept silent until they were disappeared in the gardens. They’d come here since childhood, used to running around with their little lady friends. There had been Aline and Helen, Lydia and Maia.

Lydia had always been older in the mind and more serious, but she’d been married soon after her 18th birthday. She had loved him. She was now mourning him. She’d become, sadly, an annoyance to Clarissa and Isabelle. When her husband was still of this plane, she could not stop talking of the great pleasure of being courted by a man.

Isabelle was nearing her 21st year. She knew her parents had until then to have her marry someone. Past that date, she would not need approval, and would not be forced into marriage. She waited impatiently for that date.

Her celibacy was a topic of discussion. Though some women accepted rather easily her age and status, many were disconcerted. In all honesty, Isabelle saw no qualms in marrying a man. She loved men as she did women, she was just versatile in that way. She’d just never known someone she’d wanted marriage with, until her.

“You’re thinking again.” Clarissa said softly, as they reached their favorite part of the gardens. It was a secluded greenhouse, with a delicate fountain running harmonically in the center of the metal and glass structure. Bushes of roses and violets, and other flowers grew under it, protected from the rains.

Lady Herondale’s roses were known in the county. Isabelle regularly stole a few from the greenhouse. But the violets would look greater in Clarissa’s hair that day, than the roses. It would compliment her blush and the color of her dress.

They sat on a bench carved into rock, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. It was silent around them, only the gentle lapping of the water against the stone basin of the fountain came to trouble the serene atmosphere.

“I’m thinking of you. You and I, my love.” Isabelle whispered. “And I must admit, it is not one of the nicest thoughts.” She reached up, hand cupping her lover’s cheek in the most tender way, as if Clarissa was made of crystal and threatened to shatter.

“Lady Herondale is right. You and I are not children anymore. How long until our mothers and her decide Johnathan is the one for you?” She asked, sadness in her voice.

“You think too much. Soon enough I will be 21, as you will be, and we will live together. Isabelle, you are the one for me, do not fear any of those who would force us apart.” In the firmness, in the fire and the determination she could sense in her lover’s words, Isabelle found one of the many reasons she loved the way she did.

“You are right. I think too much. For now, there is a few words that I would like for you to hear, but first, we shall made a crown for my queen, out of the violets growing in this house.” Isabelle chuckled.

She pushed away the thoughts and stood, walking swiftly to the violets and choosing the ones that would adorn her lover’s mane. Only the most vibrant would be enough for her love, only the most beautiful and proud.

She straightened back up, hands full of newly taken flowers, when Clarissa chose that moment to dive in for a kiss, the softness and surprise making Isabelle giggle. This, this was love without equal.

Clarissa decided eventually to snatch a few of the rosebuds, and they sat together for the afternoon, hand weaving the greenest of flowers together. Isabelle made for her lover a crown of violets. She knew the meaning of those flowers from a poem of Sappho she’d read in secret months ago, when her feelings for Clarissa had started tasting like the perfume of love, hypnotising and complex, and no longer like the sweet honey of friendship.

Sappho reminded her lost lover of the beautiful things passed, of the crowns of violets and rosebuds.

It resounded deeply in that particular moment, though. Clarissa forming a crown for Isabelle of rosebuds, while she formed one of violets. The similarity of it made her wonder if women of the Old Ages were so different from her. It seemed to her like Sappho shared many of her qualities. Humans were such peculiar creatures.

“You’re thinking again, my Carmilla. What fairy is responsible from stealing your thoughts away from me, today?” Clarissa teased.

“Her name is Sappho.”

“Sappho? Are you seeing other women, my love? Should I be worried that your heart isn’t mine entirely?” The redhead added, and the teasing in her eyes made Isabelle’s heart sing.

“My love is all yours. Fear not.” Isabelle chuckled in answer. “Sappho is a poet from the old times. She makes me think of us.”

Clarissa let her hands fall, finishing to arrange the flowers together. She had, somehow, managed to assemble it without pricking her finger once. Isabelle loved a goddess.

“How does she make you think of us?” The question was curious and teasing. Isabelle couldn’t imagine a more beautiful tone.

“She writes her love for women in a way that seems like she reads my thoughts when I see you.” Isabelle whispered. “Like so. It is her poem Awed By Her Splendor that translated my mind.”

She reached inside of her dress, where she kept he sweet letters of love written by her lover, and out of it pulled a folded paper. “Read. Only the voice in your mind can do justice to such beauty.”

“You would not tarnish it.” Clarissa reminded her, but took the paper. She unfolded it and read.

Awed by her splendor stars near the lovely moon cover their own bright faces when she is roundest and lights earth with her silver