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05-02-2016, 06:11 PM
i want to reconcile the violence in your heart
The light began to fade; one sublime chime after another pulled away, and she was left feeling cold, bereft, and empty. His laugh faded off into the throngs of ice. His words blistered instead, wore against the grain. She’s missing something again, like always, that kept creatures here, within the washing glow of resplendence and the beautiful tapestries of snow coveted by day, because as soon as she said Roland wasn’t here, Caneo seemed to drift. It was the cycle, cruel and malignant, flailing wildly at the seams of all her trials and tribulations, for no matter what she did, no matter what she tried, no matter how many times she’d offered her heart, her kindness, her compassion, it seemed to be trod upon. The Songbird could watch her heart bleed along the winter floor if she’d liked, beating and red, incandescent and full of passion, full of love, full of understanding, wanting to be cherished, wanting to succeed, only to be ignored. She’d bestowed the world in her radiance, in her beneficence, and it never seemed to do any good. Her perseverance was always seemingly, swiftly, denied; and when the world sought for her to rise up from those sunken ashes, she flailed and fluttered, blossomed and bloomed, and let the realm set her ablaze again. She didn’t understand what she’d done to be spurned, to be isolated, to be forlorn when all she’d ever craved to do was smile and be smiled at in return – unless she just simply wasn’t enough, for anyone, for anything.
Worthless, the echoes rang, clawing, biting, and rasping, always there, always waiting.
You’re worthless, they hissed, long and low, down the length of her nape and through the coil of her shoulders. There they stayed, haunting and looming, poignant and grating.
Wasn’t this why everyone left her? Wasn’t this why her connections were brief, quaint, fragile, fickle? Wasn’t this why every time she lent out her heart, it came back crushed? Because she wasn’t worthy of anyone’s time, of anyone’s patience, of anyone else’s kindness?
Maybe Roland had seen it in the mirrors, when they drifted across carnivals and masquerades, had seen how little value she conveyed to the realms, had seen how her devotion, her compassion, her desires were simply little bits of nothingness. What would they amount to, in the end? What did anyone gain from knowing the Songbird?
Strength and love, Imogen whispered through their connection, and Lena couldn’t help but deny it. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, and she blinked them away, staring at the snow, at the void, at the walls she’d built all around her to avoid this pain, this hurt, this twisting, feral agony, and how none of it ever mattered.
Am I? He twisted it back onto her, as if the bestowal, as if the invitation, is a rotting, ridiculous thing, an absurd declaration made by an even odder creature. She wanted to bury her head in the ice or crawl beneath the Sentinel’s wake, hide, hide, hide because her fortitude was leaving her and she was so pathetic, so stupid –
I live in the Dragon’s Throat now, and the nymph only nodded, understanding loyalty, even when it wasn’t brought back to her, even when the eyes of so many that she’d healed, that she’d sung sweet songs to barely glanced her way, when she was as isolated, as desolate, as the rest of the mountains. When she’s returned to her glamour, to her pretenses, to futility and pointlessness (a regal bow, a carved nobility, the mask she’d always borne when her parents looked her in the eye and told her to die, when the world forgot who she was and ceased caring altogether, when she was alone and adrift in forests and meadows, singing her sad lullabies), her eyes shifted to his. There might have been sadness flickering in his depths, or merely hers mirroring the sentiments and emotions for both of them, but she didn’t speculate on its nuance. “Of course,” she uttered, like it was a token thing, for him to refuse her request, for him to dance off back towards the dunes and sand and the rising sun, snake in tow, just her and Imogen left in the howling wind and the Sentinels’ watchful eye. The sylph wondered if the decrepit statues ever felt so terribly, hopelessly lost, known only for their barbarity, for their potential savagery, for the protective guise they forged across the land.
His next set of words caught her off guard – his own parcel of bestowals – but she gave him naught in return. Even when the words settled across her mind (I’d like to be needed), she knew she wouldn’t give them voice. She’d continue in the same pattern, day after day, night after night, hour after hour, pretending that naught was amiss and everything was fine, whittling and waning until eventually, there’d be nothing left of her but a small, fragile aria and some withering flower. Instead of breaking apart in front of him, she smiled, sad and fond. “Thank you for the offer. Perhaps I will come find you when I can think of something.”
Worthless, the echoes rang, clawing, biting, and rasping, always there, always waiting.
You’re worthless, they hissed, long and low, down the length of her nape and through the coil of her shoulders. There they stayed, haunting and looming, poignant and grating.
Wasn’t this why everyone left her? Wasn’t this why her connections were brief, quaint, fragile, fickle? Wasn’t this why every time she lent out her heart, it came back crushed? Because she wasn’t worthy of anyone’s time, of anyone’s patience, of anyone else’s kindness?
Maybe Roland had seen it in the mirrors, when they drifted across carnivals and masquerades, had seen how little value she conveyed to the realms, had seen how her devotion, her compassion, her desires were simply little bits of nothingness. What would they amount to, in the end? What did anyone gain from knowing the Songbird?
Strength and love, Imogen whispered through their connection, and Lena couldn’t help but deny it. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, and she blinked them away, staring at the snow, at the void, at the walls she’d built all around her to avoid this pain, this hurt, this twisting, feral agony, and how none of it ever mattered.
Am I? He twisted it back onto her, as if the bestowal, as if the invitation, is a rotting, ridiculous thing, an absurd declaration made by an even odder creature. She wanted to bury her head in the ice or crawl beneath the Sentinel’s wake, hide, hide, hide because her fortitude was leaving her and she was so pathetic, so stupid –
I live in the Dragon’s Throat now, and the nymph only nodded, understanding loyalty, even when it wasn’t brought back to her, even when the eyes of so many that she’d healed, that she’d sung sweet songs to barely glanced her way, when she was as isolated, as desolate, as the rest of the mountains. When she’s returned to her glamour, to her pretenses, to futility and pointlessness (a regal bow, a carved nobility, the mask she’d always borne when her parents looked her in the eye and told her to die, when the world forgot who she was and ceased caring altogether, when she was alone and adrift in forests and meadows, singing her sad lullabies), her eyes shifted to his. There might have been sadness flickering in his depths, or merely hers mirroring the sentiments and emotions for both of them, but she didn’t speculate on its nuance. “Of course,” she uttered, like it was a token thing, for him to refuse her request, for him to dance off back towards the dunes and sand and the rising sun, snake in tow, just her and Imogen left in the howling wind and the Sentinels’ watchful eye. The sylph wondered if the decrepit statues ever felt so terribly, hopelessly lost, known only for their barbarity, for their potential savagery, for the protective guise they forged across the land.
His next set of words caught her off guard – his own parcel of bestowals – but she gave him naught in return. Even when the words settled across her mind (I’d like to be needed), she knew she wouldn’t give them voice. She’d continue in the same pattern, day after day, night after night, hour after hour, pretending that naught was amiss and everything was fine, whittling and waning until eventually, there’d be nothing left of her but a small, fragile aria and some withering flower. Instead of breaking apart in front of him, she smiled, sad and fond. “Thank you for the offer. Perhaps I will come find you when I can think of something.”
the songbird
@Caneo
