crash into the cemetery gates

Only a short snippet and I wrote this for a small pride event in our discord server.

POV - Gunnhildr

I hear wolves in the distance, singing a chorus as the sun rises, bringing with them a new day. The sky yawns open, rays filter in through the cracks of our hut. The chill of winter’s approach is kept at bay by the fire and I'm glad Mother stayed awake,watching both the embers and my little sister's fever.

“Gunnhildr," my mother calls, sweeping aside the leather door. Her face is worn, her braids frayed from the long night. She hands me a wooden bowl of herbs she's foraged, waving me to the table.

“You're exhausted, módir. You need sleep too."

She only sighs in answer. “Make the medicine. I need to check on Liv."

I frown at the contents of her finds. “No meadowsweet?"

“Ullr is hunting," she says wearily, sitting on my sister's bed and placing her hand on her cheek. "The god doesn’t make it easy to find what we need.”

Liv groans in her sleep. I hate that sound. She should be laughing and baking bread. She should be teasing me when she finds me practicing with my father's ax. She shouldn't be so ill. Yet she's here, sick like the others. Fever, visions, gasping, watery lungs, and sores. If she doesn't pull through, Helheim will call. I can't stand the thought of my sister, vibrant and beautiful, turned to ice.

I set the bowl down, louder than intended and Mother looks up.

Tendrils of desperation echo in carefully spun silk; my home and kitchen. I can feel your terror with each tug of the threads tickling my feet. My hunger is a hollow beast, gnawing away and it is as familiar as your fear.

Don't escape me. Please, not yet.

I'm so lonely and the only friends who visit never last long. I wish they could stay; that you could be with me forever, but that requires a sacrifice I'm unwilling to pay. You don't understand how grateful I am. How moved I am that you chose my humble residence to rest your fragile soul. It pains me to see you struggle. Let me wrap you in my prettiest blanket, to protect your gossamer wings.

But it's not just for the lost.

Choosing between Sleep & Awake,

Dreaming is preferable, sweet & deep

Except I don't dream, do I? It's another empty space,

Forgotten once I stir & scramble to hold it close.

God takes no part in the Awake, but in Sleep, do they weave stories?

How am I supposed to live in this bedlam?

Ignoring problems seems a valid solution --until it's not--

Joining naive thirty-year-old children,

Killing time -- slaughtering it-- writing awful poetry at work,

Learning not to take life so seriously,

Moping over it will kill you; trust me I know.

Nothing is worth that misery.

Opening up too much? Also dangerous.

Practice safe introversion; tuck those dainty hopes away.

Quiet the spirit & listen to the silence.

Reassuring myself that peace is better than turmoil? It's a breeze.

Sleep is always better than Awake, for now at least.

Till I hit the age where I *am* chaos,

Unstoppable & loud. No fear!

Vulnerabilities will not bring me to my knees,

Worlds belong to me & the stars are my stepping stones.

Xanthous freckles ignite me and I am golden ashes.

Youth is not just an age but a state of mind.

Dust is thick in the air,

Replacing oxygen with coarse silt,

Rich in organic matter & miniscule death particles,

Coating our tongues, our throats, our lungs.

It's a regular dust bowl outside,

And no, I'm not buying bread for half a penny,

We're not so bad off,

But we are in trouble.

Can't you feel it? We're all in trouble.

& the whole world watches,

with pity & intrigue while,

licking butter off their fingers,

Popcorn bowl sitting between Kings

& Dictators across the ocean.

We are Rome.

Not built in a day,

But collapsed on a chilly January morning.

All we do is weep.

All we do is observe and complain through the screen.

We're not helpless, but we act like we've already lost.

I don't know about everyone else,

But I plan on sitting straight,

And paying attention,

To the half truths & shocking,

White smiles of the ones,

Cassandra

I count the days by unraveling the stitches of my wedding shroud. Each severed thread is a reminder. There is no beau for me. No extravagant feast of honeyed figs and salted lamb legs. I will not dance with the fires of desire.

When my father finally visits, I'm staring out my barred window, calling out to anyone who will listen, pleading with the citizens to hear me. No one even glances up.

I blink as the lock on my door clangs open and turn to look at him. My father, the king, stands in the entrance, arms at his side and scowling at me. Behind his brown eyes I see fear. Fear of what I know and what I might say. It weighs on my heart.

The silence between us stretches and I know I have to break it first. "My king. When can I leave?"

“Cassandra,” he said, “You know you can’t leave your rooms. You’re unwell.”

I tip my head to the side, locks of raven hair falling over one eye; it fascinates and saddens me at how his image splits in two. It's how I see him in the visions.

“I’m well enough.”

“You’re not.” He slashes an arm toward the window. “You scream through the night! Treasonous things! The council is asking for your permanent imprisonment. I cannot protect you if you continue. You must stop telling these lies!”

“They’re not lies.” I snap another thread from my shroud. The pretty blue strands flutter to the stone floor. I pick it up and marvel at the vibrant color. “Troy will fall in a week. Your sons will die.”

A flash of anger deadens his gaze. “Hold your tongue, child! Our warriors are strong. Troy is unbeatable! Your brothers will win.” He steps back through the door, his expression grim as he realizes I'm a lost cause.