take my revolution.

𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. a hope, a dream. both are the same, and weigh no more than a dove’s feather. they are infinitesimal. they are the foundation on which all girls’ houses are built, which is to say that they are rocky and unreliable, and bound to cause complete and utter collapse in no time at all. when sephiroth dreams, she dreams of warm hands. a woman speaks to her and she is full of love. when she wakes, there is nothing beside her, and even less inside of her. organs scraped and burning, the hollow girl drags her stomach across the floor after toppling from the bed; she continues to live, even with nothing to her name but her bones, which are thin as a bird’s. not a big one, either. one of those unassuming things that always flits from branch to branch in the old elms on campus, no larger than a clenched fist and with black eyes so tiny she wonders how they see the world through them.

her resting expression is a stone’s throw from a frown. this sends most of the other girls in the other direction when she comes their way but not this one because she is either a fool or has her own skeletons tucked away. either way, she takes her, all of her, and does not balk at sephiroth’s idiosyncrasies. this scares her, almost. maybe because anthy’s eyes are too large. they are big and bottomless and give nothing away about how she actually feels. sephiroth looks away, redirecting her gaze to the sun - streaked pavement. the pointed toe of anthy’s narrow loafer invades this space and she is reminded that she is not the only star in the sky and that she is on trial. does she dream? she shifts the wide strap of her book bag slightly; it digs into her collarbone. “ not often. ”

she thinks of the crow and the two - headed lamb and the black cat. one night, she had a vision of a room which was impossibly tall— the ceiling was so far - off that even when she squinted, it wasn’t visible, it’s just that the light died. the walls were all made of deliciously reflective surfaces. sephiroth saw herself replicated endlessly, each image varying slightly from the last so that every curve of her body has hidden within it a secret truth that she is yet to uncover. there was a woman’s voice slipping between the panels of glass, not hers, but it spoke as if it knew her. that morning, she awoke with bile in her mouth, which was very dry. class was a blur; the woman’s mouth was on the shell of her ear every minute, but she did not turn around because she knew that the womans face would look exactly like her own. hypnos is a tyrant. in the present, she lets her gaze travel up to anthy’s protruding ankles, then her willowy calves. “ i sleep with my eyes open. ”

the hem of her skirt, now. wind rustles the pleats of both of their uniforms, though sephiroth’s brushes against her own ankles. threads of colorless hair catch in her eyelashes. the sun burns every part of her it touches. “ dreams do lie.  they make living unbearable,  sometimes. ” sephiroth’s weight transfers from one foot to the other. “ i can’t stand it. ” she admits with some finality. the muscles in her face twitch; it is as though she is wincing, but she is remarkably poor at convincing her features to move the way she would like them to.

the boy holds her longer-than-a-girl’s arms and tells her i can’t stand it.   the girl pulls away and tells her she can’t stand it.   a prince will hold the damsel and declare he can’t stand it.   he will look at the witch in the face and spit at her,  i can’t stand it.     her eyes slide to the left,  as though there is something of note here.    she hopes for little in the way of kinship but she forgets that there are no lessons to be taught and no point to be made.  your fate is unwavering and still the same,  but it isn’t she who makes it this way.   when she stops,  her shadow is significantly shorter.    anthy’s own lot is hers and it will be no different for her.  the girls that scatter in her wake are content in making a distinction.   not to be eaten,  not yet.   

better the devil you know, they are told, and they return to their brothers and their fathers.  the one you do not know bears the promise of being a mere phantom and promises entail hope.  the wise shut their eyes to the unknown and proceed with their day.   the fools… 

there will be girls who wake up to the smell of roses and blood and salt.  there will be girls in the walls and ones who will never wake again.   she recognizes the hollowness of thinking that you may be better than them for you hold no love in your heart,  hold nothing,  feel nothing.  she does so,  and loathes them all the same.    loathing, she could manage.   she follows the length of sephiroth’s shoulders with her gaze and the line of muscle pressed at the corners of her face and the distant call of age under her lips.   ( but this is a grave and there is no talk of future in a grave. )  

here, she thinks, is someone incapable of lying and this is what makes one excellent at it. 

here is a room with all the sensibilities of the wealthy,  but it is peculiarly crowded:   carpet stretched across marble and patterns carved into plaster and its emptiness do not out-do the feeling of suffocation.   utena thinks, they will be swept under water.   their first steps in are cautious,  water trailing down to the carpet, leaving small pools of a much darker red in their wake.   the message is clear:   stay put, don’t wander.  their gaze tilts up, to the pale ceiling. for  how long?   they look at him, properly, and wonder if he is that much older than them.    well, he is, but his weariness indicates something different.  

Kanon hesitates upon the comment of Utena's imposition. That they would ask such a thing is indicative of his failure as a servant--but he's not a servant either. He's Furniture pretending to be a servant because that's the role ascribed to him.

"...Natsuhi-sama would dislike it if you felt you were imposing," is what he opts to answer with, carefully weaving around Utena's question, but hoping the implication is enough: please don't make it difficult for me.

I tried to spare you. I really did. Kanon stares at Utena with blank eyes. "...Beatrice-sama will revive at the end of all of this," he says slowly, "and I don't know if you'll be spared even though you're a visitor. She's taken notice of you by now. I don't think she'll let you go. She's a very jealous witch." Please understand. And please forgive me and all of us, for wrapping up you, a stranger, in our tale. Kanon's eyes slide across the room. This is the last night he will probably ever see this bed, this nightstand, this dresser. "Please excuse me so I can inform Natsuhi that we need to set another table for dinner." He makes a hasty bow and turns for the door and leaves, closing it behind him.

from Anne Carson’s H of H Playbook

Why the guest house? At least that's easy to answer...he doesn't want to answer Natsuhi's questions or deal with her irritable mannerisms in the advent of a surprise guest. Like this he can ask Genji or Shannon for advice and broach the subject more carefully.

The door clicks open and Kanon steps to the side to let Utena enter first when they suddenly ask for his name. For a moment he hesitates before answering, but Furniture isn't supposed to disobey, so it's only another moment before he answers. "...Kanon." He shuts the door behind the two of them. He can practically hear Shannon reminding him to be polite and inquire about the 'esteemed guest's' name in his mind but pushes it to the side--being a good servant isn't his role to play. Shannon can suck up to Utena later. She's the one who always wanted a prince. Kanon was never so stupid to hope for anything like that.

here is a room with all the sensibilities of the wealthy,  but it is peculiarly crowded:   carpet stretched across marble and patterns carved into plaster and its emptiness do not out-do the feeling of suffocation.   utena thinks, they will be swept under water.   their first steps in are cautious,  water trailing down to the carpet, leaving small pools of a much darker red in their wake.   the message is clear:   stay put, don’t wander.  their gaze tilts up, to the pale ceiling. for  how long?   they look at him, properly, and wonder if he is that much older than them.    well, he is, but his weariness indicates something different.