" Tomorrow Is Cain's First Day In School ; Time Flies, Doesn't It? Are You Excited? " ( Modern Verse

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍  ;  x.

‘ 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐘 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐄    /    𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐄. ‘    eos’ populus harbored its own awareness regarding tribute in exchange for divine boon, and so, too, had children who were necessitated to grow solitary into the rule of cruel fate.  among the silent pantheon favored their king the concept of sacrifice specifically.  a haloed body, offered to redeem the sins of many, a structural rite as old as time.  for such, she was ne’er taught alternatives, too holy the word that she could ever question blood-soaked blessings.    ( should one call this bravery or, rather, lunacy ? )    in fact did the practice of oblation burn deeply into each mundane obligation, a life baptized and groomed and molded based on pure devotion ;  how ought she ever entertain another route ?  and in spite of such unthinkable idea, must she admit appreciation for its innocent source.  you, of self-preserving stubbornness against hardships, might not have imagined the consequence in withdrawing from the preordained journey toward the sacramental altar.  

upon the stone of the chosen site for rest had minor struggles manifested.  with slight amusement conducting her laugh did she assist ;  ropes tied to knots, poles pillared against, covers succumbed to her neat tug.  it was a clumsy little ordeal, but a cheerful one as well, she noted, as blankets unfurled within the interior of this tent-shelter.     “ it is not so bothersome.  i understand my position, the distance between them and me, and it would be unfair to not acknowledge that, for plenty of the people, to address me so is an expression of respect, but formalities are not a strict requirement for me.  to foster relations with allies on a personal basis and equal grounds can be a wonderful thing, too. ”    to unravel her own stance in a matter that exposed her lonesome did not come with ease.  in all the reverence called she herself anything but admirable, not by far could she qualify as a noble-driven figurehead ;  yet mused every story the same thing :  somewhere, somehow, someone must manufacture softness to a crown and compassion to a shepherd’s crook.    “ nonetheless, i am curious, and particularly worried, about your circumstances.  how is it that a young boy such as you is committing to such dangerous tasks ?  is there no guardian who would be concerned for your safety ? ” // @hamadaxfighter

MAKE YOUR MUSE AS A BUNNY !   ( lunafreya and selene )

tagged by : @oniriqe tagging : honestly if none of you will steal this i will judge you so hard

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀 𝐄𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐘𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 , 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐔𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃.   astral and whimsy.  and wherever they’d go, they would belong.  for a seeress bereft of her home, unbelonging and still half-settled, tied to the arteries of time, the wonder arose frequently when those visions of dust would finally be realized to dust, when the dream of eternity consumed those who fled every passing day from its consumption.  beneath the faint moon-sheen she folded her hands and hummed out her pondering softly.  and even this, cradled within the security of khaenri’ahn walls, would be a state momentarily existing before it did no longer.  “ for the naked eye, it is an unchanging sight, but what seems eternal is, in fact, not.  i believe she wants to remind us about our own evanescence.  that, though we may last long, it shan’t be forever.  even the moon, will disappear one day. “  abruptly did she then acknowledge etiquette might not be appropriately applied to chatter nigh resembling ‘ small talk ‘, not at all the place for philosophies and spills of vague prognostics.   “ forgive me, kind dainsleif, cryptic remarks are a terrible habit i ought to unlearn for private conversations. ” // @reginrokkr

Inteyvat anthers glow in the dead of the night, an announcement of their detachment from the shackles of their filaments to fly towards the nocturne dome specked with their companions-to-be: the stars, and the lonely moon that sheds its frigid, albescent light in the kingdom of darkness. Ever since his arrival to Khaenri'ah, this is the first time Dáinsleif has the opportunity to be on a vantage point like this with an even better company than his own solitude.

Glacial sapphires turn to look at the angelic figure beside him, what little and natural light that reaches Khaenri'ah imprinted on her like she's the source of this luminescence. ❝Many moons has it been since you witnessed this view, yes? Has it ever changed since then?❞

@moonichor ✦

* moon moon has appeared ! what to do ?

brush off

marry

confess

kiss on the cheek

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 .    //    ACCEPTING .

‘  the handsome fellow that’s trying to rescue you from a hideous fate is never wrong.  ’   //    @asterites​​​

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.    that said, while the wit with which it was conveyed, and the context thereof, robbed her embarrassingly of all her excuses, it contradicted with each principle an oracle absorbed and internalized.  hence, her first impulse was to dismiss  —   but what exactly provoked it ?  that her fate threatened a hideous undertone ?  that he, the silly hero, had all intentions to rescue her ?    (  or that he was ... handsome … ?  )    none of these points were untruths and, still, she argued.  still, she made a case for dispute  :    “ he is wrong.  i needn’t be rescued from a particular destiny that i have not chosen  — ”    but with the lakes of fire in their home of darkness, with the heads of conquered children at a gunpoint, and their betrayed roots, had it been a free decision, or unsought necessity ?   ‘ i chose this ‘    on repeat and with effort, the line transformed to conviction, did it not ?  a conviction as real as one to serve an empire which, more than once, manufactured tools out of the flesh of loved ones.  a conviction of devoting to a life of conserved rite.  a conviction that, rather than following survival instincts, there was a choice, at all.

notice, a frown pinching into pallor and a crooked line that ought to resemble a smile, but did it terribly so, marred her pretty visage as her spoken point dilated to the nonsensical.  the denial so outstretched, it portrayed no longer her own instilled thought.    “ it is not that i want him to do this for me, or that he should continue it.  moreover, he is quite hypocritical ... ”    you see, every day, solheim’s high priestess lied through her teeth.  about a good, giving godhead and redeeming salvation under the throne of his mercy ;  about worship and a cause greater than the worshipers.  every day, she lied about picking up the skeletal remains of a dormant faith, and promised to her subjects a myth cased in crystal.  in turn, she lowered her secrets into the coffin of her past, in hopes the valkyric goddess would find and care for them behind valhalla’s fog and the rotting dreams of sorrowful mwynn.  then she smothered that memory, until her woes emptied and interchanged with robes and a scepter invoking divination, forgot what other purpose her hands served than to reach for the voided universe.  for this reason, she lied again, and again, and again ;  until she believed she wanted the barren holiness, and found herself utterly bemused by the absolute ease it required to welcome festering love to creep through the spaces between her gilded ribs.

“ …  he is so …  stubborn, and foolish.  he does not listen, and i  —  ”    oh, look at her.  poor, wretched woman.  suddenly, her hands were meant to touch the heart of another, and the lies were mouthed with naught more than displeasure ;  for there was this man who learned to know her beyond them, as well as she acknowledged his reckless, careless, endearing whimsicality.  his clumsy struggles and lovable qualities.  and, truthfully, resistance could only be considered an impossible effort.  the thought of such alone torturous enough that she preferred to be snapped out of it by the curious impressions within the glance of her starry sibling  —  the sheer tease radiating off of the silent expression suggested full awareness of the remaining contents within the muffled sentence.    “ don’t you look at me like that now.  besides, something tells me a similar experience plagues and blesses you. ”

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 .    //    SEL ACCEPTING .

‘ i say this out of pure selfishness. ’    //    @peacedog​ / kazuhira.

𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐖𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆     /    𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐖𝐍.    we may hide this like a nakedness, thought that covering it came close to a selfless, principled act.  but most likely it was just that.  acting.  at times, the lunar pearl, who so silently observed us like an indifferent eye, did wonder herself if this simply made us forget who we were  ---  or if our obscured self shall be left bare, popping out wrathful and mortified and exposed through our agape mouths.  and yes, agape itself consisted of selfishness, too.  we would turn to our god, angry and spiteful about our unacknowledged sacrifices, like neglected children begging for attention.  at least, you were honest enough to admit it out loud.    “ no doubt you do.  but i sense a fraction of bitterness, too.  be careful with it. “    she had warned you many times, and never packaged she it in mockery.  rather... concern than anything else.  if only she was better than this, but you never knew her without her set of needle-words ;  gently, so gently piercing into the flesh.    “ ire is a hungry, growing creature.  i shall loathe to see you more befallen by it than you already happen to be.  it would…  sadden me. ” 

   *  //   𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐆 .

NOVEMBER 19TH,   1970,   18:27PM ███████ MANOR,   WESTCHESTER COUNTY,   NEW YORK,   UNITED STATES.

ZERO:   𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎,  𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔. BIG BOSS:   𝚒’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜. ZERO:   𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜,  𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍,  𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.    𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜.    𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘,  𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔.    𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎. BIG BOSS:   𝚒’𝚖 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘,  𝚍𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍.    𝚒’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍-𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛. ZERO:   𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔,  𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎.    𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚎𝚜.    𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗,  𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛      ——      𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚘𝚗,  𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚓𝚘𝚋. BIG BOSS:    [𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐] ZERO:   𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗.    𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍.    𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝.    𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎,  𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚜𝚖,  𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.    𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜,  𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐈𝐒  𝐇𝐎𝐖  𝐘𝐎𝐔  𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃    𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇   𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉   𝒂   𝒕𝒆𝒏   𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅   𝒅𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒓    champagne flute in your hand,  putting a convenient face whilst mingling  ‘midst a room of serpents and pink-cheeked sycophants,  the crowd of self-christened ‘elites’.    here you are,  their  concocted idol,  exchanging  forced smiles  and  ingratiating salutations  with utmost reticence as they gather around you like a  band of hawks   /   suffocate you   /   make you feel  less  like a man and more like a dangling pound of  fresh meat  on display for the ravening masses,  salivating   /   eager to feast off  carrion fame.    you nod mechanically   /   uncomfortably,  move out of every casual touch,  a drunken shoulder clap,  a girl trying to chat you up      ——      they are  blind  to the blood clots  on your teeth   /   the hands smirched  red-matricide-regret   /   the mutilating grief transmogrifying your heart into one great abscess    [    it refuses to go away.    ]      ——      you do not need their emptied congratulations,  seeds of anger sprouting at the accursed title of ‘big boss’ spilling reverently from forked tongues,  an epithet so sorely  pyrrhic-won.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐇  𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑  𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓  𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐘𝐎𝐔.     you have never been good at feigning  normalcy,  wearing ill-fitting human skin,  civilian clothes unbecoming of a man that wild.    you feel like a twarthed   /   naked   /   trapped animal.    (    no,  you don’t need any of it      ——      what you need is to clear your head because your chest is too tight,  the crowd is  too close   /   too loud,  they are taking up all the oxygen and it’s gotten too hard to breathe and you want to escape   /   lash out   /   rip at muscle and bone and claw your way out before you   -    )    check your blindspot,  case the room  :   there is no clear through-line to the exit.    east,  there is a door      ——      but you cannot say where it leads.    (    better to make for the kitchen,  take your chances in the service tunnels.    they checked your gun at the door,  but you’ve made do with  a knife  in worse situations.    you   -    )    see a window of retreat near the banquet table.    you turn,  make your way there in a hurried stride,  wholly undismayed by the expressions of annoyance you receive at the  rudeness  of your escape. 𝒚𝒐𝒖   𝒄𝒂𝒏   𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆   𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒕’𝒔   𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒆   𝒐𝒏   𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓   𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌    as you evade the throng of bodies and approach a lengthy table brimming with saccharine delicacies.    you stop   /   breath   /   tamp down  instincts  to flee when the burgeoning leonine hunger pangs.    frowning,  you stare at the multicolored appetisers   /   most of which you have never seen before   /   till you take a pair of  meat skewers  and start gnawing at them like a  beast of prey.    a sudden presence at your side provokes chin to rise   /   eye to meet a crown of gold,  wintry blues  peering at you under the heliacal glow of a crystalline chandelier,  and you   -    (    remember the passive  coldness  of her face,  standing in that field as white petals whipped around your ankles.    she gave  her body  and  her child  to her country,  carried her scar as proof,  was willing to mactate herself upon  flowered altars  for a purpose beyond comprehension.    how does she expect you to do the  same  ?    you don’t understand,  you   -    )    see red,  press your eye shut but the petals remain,  like they’re stuck to the flesh of your eyelid.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇   /   𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃   /   𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘,    shake your head      ——      she is not here.    she is dead.    this is reality.    you turn back to your food   /   get a proper sidelong look at the woman,  recognize her  for who she truly is  ;   lunafreya nox fleuret,  the  sovereign  of a protectorate in the middle of a political scuffle,  more of a  figurehead  on their machinations than a queen    [    much like you.    ]    her brother is a soldier,  acting as her dutiful custodian      ——      you recall shaking his hand briefly in the crowd,  he seemed as  disinclined  to be here as you.    you store the  information  away   /   attempt to be conversational:             ❛    leurs brochettes ne sont pas mauvaises.    mais je préfère encore manger du serpent que ça.    ❜    you say,  french fluently falling off your lips without much pondering.

@moonichor

𝐀 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 :   painted thickly with a layer of varnish, framed in pale fools gold  —  and she, a simple corner ornament.  she was made for this ;  noble-bred, a carefully hand-crafted icon.  wrought for the masses and self-appointed deities to utilize.  they seized and struggled for symbols in order to secure the slightest figment of influence, and if it were not over her, then they would compete over someone else.  they picked their gemstones to toss in the treasure chamber, leaving them without the glimmer, adulterating them within the shadowy obscurities, never to be seen on the television screen.  their ghastly tongues prattled inconceivably, in unison, to attribute to a synchronized white noise. 

with appetite did they seek her attention, too ;  ignorant of the tattered brims which remained proof of military sin and the crime to weaponize innocence like a volatile explosive.  it was a slow killing of a girl who had come to understand this as the typical behavior of hierarchical leeches, demonstrating their feigned relief to have just barely so slipped through the war-cracks.  of course, this was merely show, as they so blithely monetized the shed gore and radioactive bones.  this enormous gauge of politics spanned itself over each head, slithered with haughty threat, ‘twixt the pillars of it all where one specific chancellor watched over every singular motion of hers.  in sickening amounts so, that she urged to swiftly disappear among the crowd, toward the other side of these halls where she found …  you.    (  a trojan paradox, agonized with frauds, and praises for valor, and terrible expectations.  )    curiosity begged for satisfaction and dictated her walk, feather-light, beside you, only to sense a deeply rooted pain projected and carved into her marble-frozen apparition.

then  —  a perplexing dialogue.

“ pardon ? ”    unexpectedly widened brows and eyelids for commentary this macabre.  she fell through clouds.  etiquette quickly revised and staggering back into composure.  here she stood, not a single inch moved, silver-graced and primly kept, soft-handed and crystal-adorned —  in audience with a beast :    a rawed-up, wild child, clad in a man’s muscular structure, bearing its patron status like an ill-fitting crown, which it’s been so compelled to remove.  aggressively.  something equivalent to horror and awe struck her still, an astonished sentiment, existing between a deer and a bear.  suddenly, illogically, her personal tatteredness did not matter.  someone was always frayed more crudely, the eyes more bloodshot, the lungs more filled with desert-dust, the flowerbeds more stained with a carmine shade.    “ vous semblez être un homme avec un sens du goût incomparable. ”    at last, a response to indulge the attempt.  it might also be her individual attempt to shake off the paralyzation.    “ forgive me if it was my approach that caused you to jolt.   but you gave the impression to be in distress.  are you unwell, sir ? ”

✧ @selenorites asked: Dain kisses Luna so softly it almost doesn’t feel real. “…I’ve wanted to do that since forever.”

Long ago has it been since Dáinsleif has given up on love, or so he thought. Contrary to what many would think were he verbalize this openly, it is not out of a bad experience from which he has not healed yet or if he did, that it touched him forevermore in such way that he doesn't want to subject himself to it. Nor it is not because from some ill belief in love either as a result of bad experiences that did not exist to begin with or because of however his character is. In fact, to this day, he is struck with longing which then morphs into melancholia in few moments when he is witness of the love shared betwixt other couples.

Unlike his peers whom have long since forsaken attributes that makes them human like love, believing themselves to be above it, he is not immune to the yearning of the warmth of a gentle hand in his. Of an embrace to share a sad or happy moment. Of lips dancing with his own for minutes that feel like hours. Of tender touches that lead to gentle love-making. No— to the positive surprise of some or the disappointment of others, he is not above these.

Alas, these acts pale in comparison to a bigger desire yet that was never fulfilled: intimacy. Physical intimacy is soothing and gratifying in more ways than one, but it all ends in the superfluous surface of the waters at best. That which he found out with time that he lacked all along is the growing necessity to speak up his mind unbound by the shackles of the societal context they live in, muted and frozen with the passage of time out of reluctant resignation. To be the safe haven of another who can do the same. To connect sentimentally and spiritually with. To not be ashamed when moments of vulnerability rear their ugly head neither him or his partner.

When he believed he has given up on love, then she came to bring light to his dark night.

Like the moon that no longer hangs in the abyssal sky, she showed him the way to a path he did not consider once to be necessary. One of self-acceptance, of ceasing to look up to others above himself when he, too, shines with a light he's still in disbelief he has —he has been doing better on believing more in himself, he truly has—. Amidst that way, he took notice of the selfless care she poured on him. It was unsolicited, but much eye-opening and needed when thinking about it in hindsight. Lunafreya shared her pale light with him, but just as the moon reflects the light it absorbs from the sun in essence, so, too, she was in need of light. A light that emerged from the humble mote of light he began to believe himself to be in times of need of serious reflection, of finding herself in moments of doubt, of seeking answers to understand her place in this world. A light that, to his own surprise, was more than enough to her.

Upon realizing that he's found in her what he used to long in the yesteryear, he did not pursue her love. Instead, gathering a habit that should've been discarded long ago and in direct opposition with the foundational belief of this kingdom, he became more than her knight— he became her silent devout. Dáinsleif was happy of standing in this position, looking for her closely, being her guide when she needed one. Until one night, that contentedness has begotten something else, fuelled further still with a courage he didn't think he would dare act upon.

Moments of silence are sometimes regarded as moments to be avoided, as they may breed discomfort and awkwardness. It was never so between them, rather finding comfort in it and their mutual company when there is naught to say at that time. Cornflower eyes are locked to the eclipse that now reigns supreme the Khaenri'ahn skies, her semblance neither betraying any thought or sentiment she might feel. Sometimes, when she does that, he wonders if she seeks to find answers that only the moon would give her. Under the dim light that now illuminates the slumbering kingdom and whatever little light reaches from behind them, he marvels in her beauty, star-shaped pupils quivering within sapphire depths.

It is when she looks at him out of the corner of her eye and realizes that he's been staring all along that his heart skips a beat at the mesmerizing sight before him. Surprise melted into happiness, as if she herself is revelling at the notion that he was looking at him. The rosy glow on her pale cheeks and the smile sat upon her soft-looking lips make his own eyes soften in an indescribable look. At that moment, for reasons he didn't stop once to consider, she ceased to be the oracle, the saintess he devoted himself to from strict quiescence. At that moment, he knew: he belongs to her.

Driven by a kindled sentiment does he step forward, eyes unable to peel off from her to engrave that smile in his mind. He wants to protect it. Onyx-gloved hands reach out to cradle her face as delicate as he can get, —for he is just a warrior, after all— and, before confusion has an opportunity to cast its shadow, he allows himself to cave in that which his heart wished to fill in, to dispel the longing that has made home within him for many years. Thus he emboldens himself to lean his face closer still, dares to close his eyes until even more audaciously still, he kisses her. It is just a simple press of lips, lacking in ulterior intentions that aren't that of allowing himself to feel once more, to act upon his own desires as she had always encouraged him to do despite his fruitless denial that he has none.

His forehead presses against hers when the gentle kiss concludes, thumb tracing gently her cheekbone with newfound tenderness he had forgotten that existed in him. And ultimately does a confession slip past his lips, from a man who would sooner bite and swallow it before admitting it aloud not out of sense of pride, but of self-sabotaging thoughts of how worthy he is of her (were she know about this, he would get a scolding, he knows).

◜…I’ve wanted to do that since forever.◞

But where was my body? Where was I in these words? What of this belonged to me?

Jasminne Méndez, from Night-Blooming Jasmin(n)e: Personal Essays and Poetry (via lifeinpoetry)

   *  𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒    (  part 2  ).

07 :    versus xiii ; as a tenebraen-born oracle of solheim, lunafreya serves the fal’cie of this world since she was an adolescent girl ;  and by extention, so, too, does she serve the sleeping god of light who aims to find the unseen realm.  with chaos seeping into the realm of the living, the moon grows larger, redder, and ominous in due time, metamorphosing into a gate between dimensions, which the oracle is raised to operate.

08 :    ffx ; an unsent summoner, walking the world, haunting not as a fiend but as a ghost of the past, ever-seeking for the dreaming zanarkand she was never meant to be part of.

09 :    assassin’s creed ; the isu selene, also known by the romans as luna, was part of juno’s sage project and has ever since been spread into the tripple helix dna of the fleuret bloodline.  during the industrial revolution, lunafreya guards the ring of solomon, an eden artifact, which both templar and assassin order hunt for in equal measure and only few were granted to treasure its secrets.  

10 :    draken-nier ;    luna is a divergent type of legion specifically picked by selene, a kin to the watchers and the queen beast, in pursuit for a way to break the imposed ties between humanity and god, even if it takes thousands of years to find the correct singularity.