06-26-2021, 07:23 PM
(This post was last modified: 06-27-2021, 10:06 AM by Riannon. Edited 1 time in total.)
this world is cold.
this body was her own, and not.
from vellamo's embrace she had clambered, newborn, from that womb of brine onto the stygian shore and heaved, regaining color to her lungs.
the two years that she had frailed and curled around the edges had been given back. no longer was she dead flesh and unfeeling, scarred skin; there was no stormcloak to mantle her shoulders. her throat should bear the mark of his vow; she should be seeing this world in half-sight.
she should be in her stonebed, faithful.
she should be drowning in him, forever.
but his face – he, who held her as a home should – has gone to shadow and the ones of her hearth are nameless. all, long since overgrown her and gone to ash on her tongue. for her bewitcher, she had stood in his skin and scars and everything in-between and beneath that made him all she had loved. with them all, she had never known what it was to be lost. with them all, her devotion was forever sovereign and as she looks at these strange stars and this moon she does not know, she prays to be reclaimed by that goddess of gentle ends.
she would never leave them.
but they had made her, anyway.
they had known how she felt so completely. envied it. her, and how she had bloomed with them. so they had ferried her from it all; spirited her from that haven of heartbreakingly gorgeous splendor; summoned her through that fey-veil and stripped her past the skin and bones of all that she had promised to be, meant to be. they had cleft her open and spilt the contents of her down the edge of their hallowed spire, at the seat of their fated thrones. her remaking, again.
her refracturing, again.
and she could not promise gooseberries to gods; could not greet them with smiling, lilac kisses. so they had given her what her aching heart most desired; had sung those children into being. what would have been theirs. what was now only hers. hers alone. they think they have indemnified her wish for their dismantling of her but no, no — !
let her be reclaimed! let her be returned! let her remain to rot beneath the earth of her court; to become eyeless, mouthless, yet still moored. forever moored. never would she have borne children if he had not been the one to hold her. never would she have left them, but by death of her own accord.
not like this.
she is worlds away, with his tundrian gods and voiceless more the wellspring of all this heartache. and now, she was lost. untethered; thieved of her ever after but here again with that same, ever-aching heart but none to proffer it to.
except her children. hers. his.
( never his, now. hers. )
they had scattered them each through the cut into this wherever-world and now andraste – no, aėrith, they now marked her as – curses their separations. vellamo had taken her into the wrongness of his arms and had left her in the depths of him. here. the sands are black, and this moon is not hers. still, she must find them.
she was meant to be a mother.
this world is cold.
this body was her own, and not.
from vellamo's embrace she had clambered, newborn, from that womb of brine onto the stygian shore and heaved, regaining color to her lungs.
the two years that she had frailed and curled around the edges had been given back. no longer was she dead flesh and unfeeling, scarred skin; there was no stormcloak to mantle her shoulders. her throat should bear the mark of his vow; she should be seeing this world in half-sight.
she should be in her stonebed, faithful.
she should be drowning in him, forever.
but his face – he, who held her as a home should – has gone to shadow and the ones of her hearth are nameless. all, long since overgrown her and gone to ash on her tongue. for her bewitcher, she had stood in his skin and scars and everything in-between and beneath that made him all she had loved. with them all, she had never known what it was to be lost. with them all, her devotion was forever sovereign and as she looks at these strange stars and this moon she does not know, she prays to be reclaimed by that goddess of gentle ends.
she would never leave them.
but they had made her, anyway.
they had known how she felt so completely. envied it. her, and how she had bloomed with them. so they had ferried her from it all; spirited her from that haven of heartbreakingly gorgeous splendor; summoned her through that fey-veil and stripped her past the skin and bones of all that she had promised to be, meant to be. they had cleft her open and spilt the contents of her down the edge of their hallowed spire, at the seat of their fated thrones. her remaking, again.
her refracturing, again.
and she could not promise gooseberries to gods; could not greet them with smiling, lilac kisses. so they had given her what her aching heart most desired; had sung those children into being. what would have been theirs. what was now only hers. hers alone. they think they have indemnified her wish for their dismantling of her but no, no — !
let her be reclaimed! let her be returned! let her remain to rot beneath the earth of her court; to become eyeless, mouthless, yet still moored. forever moored. never would she have borne children if he had not been the one to hold her. never would she have left them, but by death of her own accord.
not like this.
she is worlds away, with his tundrian gods and voiceless more the wellspring of all this heartache. and now, she was lost. untethered; thieved of her ever after but here again with that same, ever-aching heart but none to proffer it to.
except her children. hers. his.
( never his, now. hers. )
they had scattered them each through the cut into this wherever-world and now andraste – no, aėrith, they now marked her as – curses their separations. vellamo had taken her into the wrongness of his arms and had left her in the depths of him. here. the sands are black, and this moon is not hers. still, she must find them.
she was meant to be a mother.
this world is cold.
the staff team luvs u
