love is the red the rose on your coffin door, what's life like bleeding on the floor?
Where my mother's were merciless, cold in places that should radiate warmth and love and a passion all to it's own, I am merciful. I dig the graves for those lost, forgotten bones and place stems of wildflowers atop each, silently wishing them well. Perhaps part of me was fantastical, to believe that where they would go would be far better than here. It is sweet, bitterly so, how life can be taken with a seductive kiss and a deathly blow. All their memories, flooding the ground with their crimson life. The thought alone sends shivers throughout me and I am momentarily brought back to the present, when Kushiel answers me. I find his voice quite comforting, like the whistling wind through the boughs of the trees. Like the light falling rain upon the summer's eve. Though I am quite sure that he is not always this soft, this gentle or mysterious, I take him as he is for now; when you do not have much, you take what you are given. And I seem to hold on quite dearly to this moment.
'It's cold here.' I say, biting my tongue gently. It was cold here in more ways than the icy winds that whip through the meadow, or the way the frost cracks beneath hooves. 'I would like to see wha it's like to be... warm.' Perhaps that was another reason I seem to cling to his flickering flame, for there is configured warmth from him. Even if his heart is cold, or soul is black, he cannot deny that the fire is warm and hot and welcoming so.
'I do not know of those places. I've only ever known the meadow.' There are talks between my mothers of places, of fallen kings and wretched queens. Of hate and spite and delicate throes of whatever love takes and steals. But I, Vaermina, know nothing but this. 'Your companionship is far greater than those of the weeds and wildflowers. I can only talk to the trees for so long.' A haunting smile etches my lips for a fleeting moment, a soft joke, a gentle jest. I shake my head, knots of ebony cascading over the silvery eyes that saw so much, but did not shut to the horrors that remain unspoken.
'They do not like children. Not much.' They are perhaps too sweet, too sickly for their tastes. But I do not know, all I care for is the tidying of the crimsons gained grass, picking up the bones and arranging them just so. to build a fort almost castle-like. 'You are one of few I have met, Kushiel. But one I'd like to meet again...'
v a e r m i n a
chantale x nykeln