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@frysse
& 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 ⁽¹⁾ . . . ( a private writing blog for ELSA OF ARENDELLE from the frozen franchise, exploring memory and mythicization, the allegory of the season-cycle, among others. ) . . . but there was neither 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒆 nor 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 in their glance.
𝖎. CARRD. 𝖎𝖎. PINTEREST. 𝖎𝖎𝖎. SIDEBLOG.
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:)
(!)
Come back.
give me like. 2 weeks
Truman Capote, from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”
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THE EVER-SNOW WOULD NOT BE HOLLOWED BY HER FOOTFALLS, the noiseless glissade that marked the beginning of her pilgrimage to a land more hallowed than this mountain, domicile of the earth’s empyrean wardens. her guest she had left deep in the throes of fitful slumber — where his uneven breaths were far more preferable than the belligerent coughing that plagued his every other word in wakefulness. the frigid hands of affliction would keep him manacled to his snowbed for some time yet, permitting her a light-footed jaunt to where the promise of succor was not as barren as the tundras over which she claimed sovereignty. a superfluous inbreath of the rarefied summit air, and she recalled the sudden effusion of vitality, the resolve that momentarily inspirited him as his palm swallowed hers in a fervent grip. (with a plea so pitifully impassioned, she might have been forgiven the assumption that it was discharged in boon to the ailing self; yet as it unfolded, that scroll of his entreaty written in fits and starts of febrility that his leadened body deigned to allow, it soon became obvious that his conscience lingered on the frozen sepulcher of his erstwhile companion.) the winter sun looked sickly, pallid in an ossein way, languishing in the cloudless sky; her storm cleaved for her passage with daughter-like deference, revealing miles upon miles of snow-soil. somewhere here laid the bones of the good doctor’s ill-fated guide, and so too his heirloom. the queen hummed, and continued on.
with surprising alacrity, the enchanted evergreen revealed itself— or perhaps the convolutions of an aeonian existence simply eroded how she perceived the passage of time. it mattered little, in this bewitched pocket of earth, where her kindred stood stalwart and unchanged, as they always were and always would be. (as she herself always would be.) behemoths hewn from boulders set the ground aquiver as they strode on gravelly limbs to greet her; the nøkk and his undine kinswomen rippled the lakes and streams in their haste to say hello. gale whistled blithely about her form, zephyrs tugging on her regalia to guide her to a cornucopia of herbs and flowering plants in a clearing at the heart of the forest. bruni, the fire salamander who was the lodestone of the excursion, had only been all too generous with her request. before long she found herself cradling a cylinder flickering with flame — holy warmth, filled with godhead of the forest, insuperable even against her sempiternal chill.
the sallow welkin of her wintry seat welcomed her brisk return, the journey back having been made at a less sedate pace. upon reaching the tumult of her storm — ever so irascible, and all the more vertiginous for it — she halted in her advance. with a preternatural awareness of what laid entombed beneath the snow-soil, (inhumed by their own misfortune,) she unearthed the stiff chassis of the man who once was ødger, perfectly embalmed by the season that served his burial mound. like the embattled physician had said, around his pulseless neck he wore a chain of silver, a heavy pendant molded into the shape of a ship and an oar, thick runes carved into the metal. an ode to njörðr, indeed. too-careful fingers slip the chain from the delicate neck, the heirloom clutched in a white palm. the flourish of another hand presaged the emergence of snow-wraiths in twain, created with the sole directive of bearing this corpse to the foot of the mountain, where alpinists or cragsmen would no doubt discover it.
i have grown soft, thought with a furrowed brow, the tireless trek to her crystal citadel accompanied now by the specter of disconcertion. the fortress was as disturbed as it had been when she departed — which was to say, not at all. her ornery patient remained thankfully bedbound, the steel hues of his irises hidden behind lowered eyelids. setting the ever-warm lamp on a table by his bedside, with the basket of herbs and forest fare adjacent, she took his shoulder in hand and shook it softly, beckoning him to wakefulness. ❛❛ doctor, @embrosyn, embron— i have returned, with all that which you seek. ❜❜
Dark Passage (1947) dir. Delmer Daves
THE TIMID FLESH OF FROST COME TO REST UPON HIS TEMPLE: WINTER'S CRYSTALLINE BOUGH CONFRONTED BY THE INCANDESCENT WARMTH OF PRESUMPTUOUS MALADY, HER KNUCKLES LIKE PALE GLASS.
SHE DECLARED HIM WARM, IN SO MANY TWINKLING TONES, OUR DIAPHANOUS LADY OF WINTER, AND HE STIFLED THE CONTEMPTUOUS BALK THAT WRESTLED TO LIFE IN HIS THROAT AS A RESULT OF THIS ADMISSION; A BLOCK OF ICE, THOUGHT HE, WOULD HAVE FELT WARM IN COMPARISON TO HER GLACIAL MAJESTY. THE PHYSICIAN FELT AT ONCE THAT SHE HAD BEEN A POOR CHOICE FOR ATTESTATION, EVEN IN SPITE OF HIS INSISTENCE. BUT THERE HAD BEEN NO ONE ELSE! THE STOIC GOLEM THAT WAS HER FRIGID FORTRESS SHELTERED NO OTHER LIVING THING BUT HE AND LIKELY WOULDN'T HAVE HAD IT NOT BEEN FOR ITS INHERENT FEALTY TO THE SPORADIC INCLINATIONS OF ITS MISTRESS. HE KNEW NOT THE DEPTH OF ITS OBEDIENCE BUT WHOLLY UNDERSTOOD THIS MUCH: IT WAS A LIVING SIMULACRUM OF THE HEART OF THE ICE QUEEN, SUBSERVIENT TO HER EVERY MERCURIAL WHIM. SHOULD HE AT ALL INCENSE HER, THE CASTLE WOULD BECOME, TOO, AFFRONTED AND HE WOULD BE SPAT SEAMLESSLY INTO THE BLIZZARD AS IF HE HAD NEVER BEEN AT ALL! WHAT TERRIBLE LUCK TO HAVE STUMBLED, HEAD-FIRST, INTO THE BEWITCHED BOSOM OF THE ARCTIC ARCANE.
WITHDREW HER PALLID FINGERS DID SHE AND THE PHYSICIAN, CONSCIENCE WROUGHT WITH A BLUSTERY BLIZZARD OF ITS OWN, GRIMACED THROUGH HIS BODILY AFFLICTION IN AN EFFORT TO MAKE HIS SEETHING DISPLEASURE UNDERSTOOD. "YOU ARE NOT TO MAKE ASSUMPTIONS WITH REGARD TO MEDICINE, YOUR MAJESTY AND EVEN WHEN YOU ARE CERTAIN, EFFORTS MUST BE MADE TO CONFIRM YOUR SUSPICIONS. IT IS STILL ONLY AN ASSUMPTION UNTIL YOU DO." HE BRUSQUELY CHASTISED, ONLY TO FALL INTO AN ABRUPT BOUT OF RAUCOUS COUGHING THEREAFTER (PERHAPS SHE'D WISHED IT UPON HIM). THE BITTER THROB OF INFLAMED SINUSES PLAGUED HIS HANDSOME CONSTERNATION, COMMANDING AN UNPLEASANT ROUGE ACROSS HIS NOSE AND CHEEKS WHILST SUBJECTING HIS HEIMAL EYES TO AN USUAL HEAVINESS. IT WAS AS IF HIS EYE-BALLS WERE TO DEPART THEIR SOCKETS AT ANY MOMENT. THE FIEND GROANED. "IF YOU INTEND TO HELP ME WHICH I AM NOT CONFIDENT YOU'RE KEEN TO DO YOU'LL MAKE YOURSELF A MORE FORMIDABLE PUPIL.. [MORE GROTESQUE HEMMING] MISERABLE PLACE, MISERABLE COLD."
the strained silence was not enough to ward away his rancor and its consequential ramblings. his gloved hand emerged from the gentle swells of the bed-linens to relieve his throbbing temple. "have you any herbs? tea or soup..? something warm?"
WHAT INEXORABLE VIRULENCE, THAT WHICH CLUNG TO EVERY WORD HACKED BY OVERTAXED LUNGS! —that which, though embittering sporadic speech, was ultimately defanged by the hibernal hand of his affliction, the fruit of her wintry womb. and so those hemmed-out upbraids betided her without inciting offense, the threads of her patience having woven themselves into endurance, scaffolded by compunction and concession both. (for err he did not, avuncular condescension aside— one would not call upon a corpse to tend to the living, nor upon a glacier to bleed with warmth.) the good doctor’s ill-starred luck fancied itself something of a tragedian, and had simply blessed him with the saddest of tidings, lady winter herself as infelicitous apprentice.
yoked to the will-hewn snowbed by his ailment, she watched as a beleaguered hand exhumed itself from the hoary linens, still-gloved fingers kneading — futilely, she presumed — at a temple. with a sigh that, in a fit of histrionics suggested more chagrin than was felt in truth, once again did her porcelain hand raise, coaxing aside his own by way of substitution. that touch, so seductively hiemal, pressed against the side of his head in a tender caress, a wordless endeavor to assuage whatever soreness bedeviled it. the physician’s ensuing words had given the devil a name: naivete. what might he have expected from her wintry tundras? even the least cold of her benedictions could not be considered warm by any stretch of the imagination; perhaps her guest had been worse off than she thought. eyes like inscrutable crystals fell upon him, incongruous with the diaphane smile haunting the corners of pursed lips. ❛❛ it comforts me to know that you still have the energy to jest, even despite your indisposition. ❜❜ marooned in the navel of the north mountain, ensconced within the living walls of her body-palace with her daughter-storm as fierce sentinel… what warmth could have osmosed from the world beyond this perennial season?
in the fraught silence, disturbed only by his more truculent breaths, floes of her resolve began to glaciate. perhaps she would make a long-overdue visit to her ethereal brethren, deep in the evergreens where no rational mind would ever dare domicile. (surely, bruni would not begrudge her a boon, bosom friends as they were…) the snow queen knelt before her ailing ward in a mimicry of genuflection, tentative muliebrity in the lilt of her voice, reluctant to admit her penury where even the barest skeins of warmth were concerned. ❛❛ i have nothing of the sort here, i’m afraid — though i may yet procure something of use. ❜❜ it would mean, of course, a momentary (though not entire,) departure from her fortress, leaving him to his lonesome but for the steady reverberation of her frigid heartbeat. ❛❛ we both know you are in no condition to be wandering about, so i will not disrespect you with a reminder. instead, i will say that you remain under my protection, and nothing will harm you while i am away. ❜❜ she bared her teeth in a smile, all nacre. ❛❛ i am the only thing worth fearing in this mountain. ❜❜
vitreous fingertips grazed along the line of his jaw, whetted now by the teeth-grit of wretched misery. ❛❛ i will return. ❜❜
🌙 * ― 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 ( a collection of various settings for drabbles or prompts, or both! )
001. a tattoo parlour, buzzing with machinery and walls lined with artwork . 002. a shopping mall, crowded and loud . 003. a cabin in the mountains, taking shelter from the snow storm. 004. an abandoned tea party, occupied with broken dolls . 005. the shooting range, empty casings clinking on the floor and sulphur in the air . 006. a music room, filled with melodies of an instrument . 007. an empty auto shop, hood of a car left open and quiet music coming through speakers . 008. a bright arcade, coins falling from machines and claws grabbing at soft toys . 009. the kennels, filled with barking dogs and excited companions . 010. a restaurant, where everyone is eerily quiet and staff are overly friendly . 011. a riding arena, with trained riders atop proud horses . 012. a mini golf course, sails of a windmill obscuring the path ahead . 013. a zoo, filled with an array of unique animals . 014. the docks of a bay, boats lining the decks . 015. a pond with ducks, seeking food . 016. a museum, displaying ancient bones and pottery of a history long ago . 017. a closed down prison, ghosts of violent history echoing in empty cells . 018. a quiet train station, lights overhead flickering and announcement board displaying errors . 019. the vast desert, scorching heat baring down at high noon . 020. the dark woods, filled with strange hanging symbols made of sticks . 021. a deep hole in the ground, covered by leaves and sticks . 022. a wishing fountain, base lined with copper coins of past wishes . 023. an abandoned picnic in an empty field, flask still warm with coffee . 024. a barn filled with hay and tools, old wood creaking in the wind . 025. a graveyard in the dead of night, wind howling through the trees . 026. a crumbling bridge above a raging river . 027. the refreshing waters of a lake, away from prying eyes . 028. the crossroads, in the middle of nowhere . 029. a cosy bonfire at summer camp, marshmallows roasting on the fire . 030. the top of a radio tower, with the perfect view of the surrounding area . 031. a lone phone box on a street corner . 032. a large elaborate temple dedicated to a deity, offerings still intact . 033. a drive-in movie theatre, cars empty and projector casting only light onto the screen . 034. a strange trail of breadcrumbs on a woodland path . 035. a haunted mansion, ancient paintings watching every footstep . 036. a decrepit mine located out in the hills, believed by locals to have a powerful curse cast upon it . 037. the edge of a cliff, overlooking the rough waves and distant sounds of approaching danger . 038. a road trip across country, music blaring through speakers . 039. a flower shop, filled with bouquets and a sweet aroma . 040. an airport in the early hours of the morning, deprived of sleep . 041. a train on its way to its destination, a sleeping passenger resting on a shoulder . 042. an abandoned shack filled with strange books of the occult and something mysterious bubbling on the stove . 043. an empty throne room, moonlight glimmering through tall windows . 044. an underwater tunnel in an aquarium, fish swimming overhead and sharks looming in the distance . 045. deep within unmarked cave located in the side of a mountain, lit only by a flare . 046. the dusty streets of a western town, watched by wary residents . 047. the back of a vast library, surrounded by books, when a black book falls from the highest shelf . 048. a room of an asylum, an abandoned camcorder left in the middle of the room . 049. the shores of an unknown beach, washed up from the ocean . 050. the deck of an unsteady ship, waves crashing against the haul and rain lashing down from dark clouds .
cemetery flowers after the ice storm photography: Peter Fricke
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card of dust. sender finds the receiver asleep over a book and wakes them. / meredith
shakespeare lullabies her tonight. some cosmic irony must have been at play, when she had developed an inclination to partake of the bard’s verses in an attempt to lull herself into repose — in spite of the leaden weight of memory appended to every syllable. she doesn’t quite remember how long she has been asleep, only that malvolio was mid-recitation of a missive, speaking of greatnesses, when her eyelids grew too heavy to bear. beneath the carnelian glow of lamplight, it seems that she had twisted her lissome frame into a parody of girlhood, tucked as she was into the corner of the plush couch.
touch, (gentle and fleeting,) coaxes her back into wakefulness, and she gathers her bearings in a series of blinks. the moon, bisected by the windowpane, bathes the room in an eerie half-light that limns all it touches with an almost otherworldly glow. before her stands a conflagration, tendrils of holy flame sprouting from a sacred scalp and licking down her shoulders. (in her chest, elsa’s heart stumbles, if only because she has always been a creature of the cold.) she blinks again— sees a woman in place of the blaze, and remembers herself. ever languid, she lifts up to an elbow, delicate fingers rubbing remnants of slumber from her eye. shakespeare lays forgotten, splayed open against her chest.
❛❛ meredith? ❜❜ a murmur, sleep-soft; too-bright eyes flicker to a clock on a nearby desk. ❛❛ it’s late. ❜❜
A SAINT, MARTYR, AN ABOMINATION. a man bereft of any of his core wants— he simply acted in raw survival mode. how any of their kind got by in a world like this was of concern to him. his own live having taken a turn he thought impossible. aleksander had known apathy like this before. in the service of the ravkan king, he had become complacent for a time whilst he cloyed at the strings harbouring his hatred. and how he could hate... it made him feel alive. knowing he could react in a visceral manner if he really let himself. the majority of his life now being about self-control. ( not letting himself come before those he cared about. ) her, the coil around his heart. his home, and the place he had come to find his awe-struck reverence in. some had gods, & some had altars for those they revered. but he only had himself on his knees— reigning the true violence lurking in the shadowed ichor of his veins. ancient awful anchorage ate: it yearned and it longed for a freedom the world could no longer employ. so he took it out in the places he could, a self softened. bruised and bloodied, blemished in ways the man he had been would never allow. these sensations kept his blood from running cold, kept him busy. ❛❛ you are soft, ❜❜ not an insult, nor a compliment either.
he feared normalcy, like most did madness. although madness might've been a reprieve from the day to day nuance of humanity. broken. she lashed back, her razor sharp wit tactile in how it caught his skin. ❛❛ end? how can it end, when it is what keeps the pain out? ❜❜ the pain of not using his grisha born abilities. starless one did not consider himself made sick by his lack. unlike elsa, his abilities had no place in their world. no one wanted demons, nor the dark. he reaches for her now, calloused & bloodied digits creasing into her sides. it is gentle at first, they burrow into fabric until they can feel ribcage. he knew she was here, that she was real and she chose to remain with him despite the poisoned cup he filled. he felt a bitter sting at pallid grey gaze. the corners threatening unholy welling. something akin to regret, to make her feel so hollow. so worried. her resignation to his untimely demise was enough to stop him from letting gravel fall from plump tiers. defeated. ❛❛ i would not greet my grave so easily. leaving you alone in a world like this would be unfair. how do i come back to myself? ❜❜ when would elsa tire of putting broken men back together?
between them, the air was glaciating. lament settled upon her shoulders like an old mantle, well-known and well-worn. elsa had become a repository for grief, accoutred in mourning silks for the lives they’d lived and lost. (she was a lady, once, always best-suited for regalia, even one as threadbare as this.) inasmuch as her blood trilled the chorus of kings and hunters, so too did it warble with the song of the very prey they sought to expunge from the world. this blood had made a vagabond of her, doomed to wander in a perennial chill of her own design before her path had intertwined with his, their fates braided together in a show of permanence that was not at all unwelcome. for too long, they worshipped at each other’s altar, supped at shared succor as they hewed themselves into belonging: he was hers in ways their world could not understand, and this consoled her in a world she could no longer comprehend.
❛❛ if i am soft, then so be it. you cannot get by on spindles alone. ❜❜ his hands on her blouse, probing into the cage of her ribs, as though he could scaffold its decrepit structure by the force of his grip alone — it was comforting, to know that he could catch her heart in his palms when her bones failed to keep it restrained. bloodstained fingers creased fabric with a promise of transference; it would be laborious to launder it into impeccability, but she had borne worse marks, (on kefta, on skin, on the overfull basin of her memory). his imprints on her had always been gladly received.
her eyes, cerulean with thaw and glistening accordingly, watched those slate depths as though foraging for a hint of reassurance. ❛❛ you cannot blame me for thinking that you might leave, ❜❜ she said, in the dulcet tones of a confessant. ❛❛ you scare me now, in ways you did not when we were younger. ❜❜ —when the world hadn’t yet relegated them to obsolescence: when elsa didn’t need to scrounge for fleeting moments to twist water into ice and ablate it, when aleksander didn’t need to wrap his fists and skirmish belowground to feel alive.
her fingers (seismic and cool,) grazed his cheek, offering relief to the constellation of bruises therein. with a tenderness that she once thought herself wholly incapable of, she drew him down to her, forehead to forehead. ❛❛ i cannot bear to see you in pain. ❜❜ in her mind’s eye, she conjured him in his ceremonial garb, the very pinnacle of grisha puissance. what she would give for that world once more, imperfect and execrable and harrowing as it was. ❛❛ but this is pain, too. can’t you see that? ❜❜
“ i do not mean it as a condemning thing. there is… a lightness to people who know their desires, it is not a burden, but a blessing to know yourself, ” self - discovery is not as beautiful as it’s spoken through the empath’s lips, it’s a gruesome, alienating process, raven is aware, but more importantly, she believes the sovereign to also share the loneliness of such endeavors. therefore, she chooses not to further exalt the bleakness of the aware solitude, and instead, the beauty of transforming the world in accordance to one’s soul. with uncharacteristic shine, the dyad trails to sit beside elsa, tendrils impatiently seizin the first herb on the hand - picked assortment. although tailoring is the most vital part of the process, she’s very proud of her curation, and that it may make elsa's choice easier.
the dyad hopes it's not evident how desperate she is to earn any semblance that this is in fact welcomed. that the efforts brings forth any sliver of flattery on the icy woman’s face. demanding of a creature as an asura can be, raven wishes not for warmth or optimistic merry but the brightness of the morning sun over the snowy cheeks of a meadow. “ well… we may start with sage, ” a curious, expectant meeting of blue and black eyes, “ norwegian sagebrush, it is hard to find nowadays. it is earthy, yet sweet like lavender, and most importantly... profoundly calming. ” with a delicate extension, she places the dried leaves over the snow queen’s palm, a cheeky brush of a thumb escapes the dyad in mischievous attempt to find emotion behind the crystal of the other’s face. “ but we may also see some berries, if you wish for more… furor in your scent. ”
the dyad speaks of one of the few boons to an overlong existence — a chance to make possible the sisyphean endeavor of knowing the self. elsa has partaken of that particular pleasure-pain, and is well-acquainted with the way loneliness serves to exhume truths that sit in the heart of her, (deep within the pith that she might not have gouged out, were she surrounded by home and hearth). it is solitude that unmakes, enough to give way to discovery. the presence of another beside her, now that the years have seen her raveled and unraveled, no longer flays the raw edges of her nerves, the way that it did when she was deep in her girlhood. now, she allows the nacre of her expression to splinter into what might be a smile, if held up to the light.
it is evident, the acuity with which she regards the proffered flora, attention entirely inveigled by raven’s light treatise to their qualities and evocations. elsa meets the other’s gaze with obvious intrigue, a porcelain palm extended in receipt of the dried leaves and blossoms. they settle against her ersatz skin, and to her nose wafts a scent precisely as described — altogether pacifying, a subtle matrimony of earth and saccharine, calling to mind the mountainous paths of a kingdom just beside her own. (for a moment, she feels a fleeting warmth against her palm; how curious, that her hand should twitch as though in pursuit of it.) lips are coaxed into an upward curve by tendrils of nostalgia for a home long lost. there is grief in there, too— no longer ululating like a febrile tempest, but a steady pulse percussing her heartbeat, so intricately woven into the esse of her.
❛❛ i think i have had enough furor for a lifetime, ❜❜ she murmurs, a bittersweet fondness coming upon her as the word sends ripples into the lake of her memory. arctic eyes flicker up to the other, appraisal in her gaze. ❛❛ the… sagebrush reminds me of a treasured memory. would you like to hear about it? ❜❜
DESPITE THE WARNINGS, : HOW LETHAL CURIOSITY IS FOR THE LIKES OF HER ... she once again merely smirks at its' face, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑. ( she has those nine lives for a reason, does she not? ) the queen is as graceful as she is rumored to be, THAT IS NO LIE ... yet, she detects something underneath, as a vault hides its' treasures. ❝ the pleasure is all mine. ❞ 𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒, whilst in a swift, subtle motion jade green hues move up &. down to examine elsa's figure : there is no mishieveous edge to it, rather, SHE MAKES HER INTRIQUE OBVIOUS! ( &. when it comes to her, it is most likely with intent, ... for little next to nothing is done to hide the playfulness in her smirk. )
BUT, SHE DOES SPARE A GLANCE AT THEIR SURROUNDINGS, : IF ONLY TO OFFER A MOMENTARY PEACE AWAY FROM HER HYPNOTIZING GAZE, always harboring a certain spark. &. the attendees grouping up, others swaying to the slow tunes. sharp ears kept alerted, just in case 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 IS CAPTURED ... for at the entry, a certain ambassador had earned felicia's attention, &. not in the good way. FOR NOW HIS LUCK HANGS IN BALANCE, 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐋𝐘 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐄. ... mere seconds pass, &. to her surprise, it is the queen herself who breaks the silence, only furthering felicia's amusement. &. SHE IS REWARDED with a smile, one that she mirrors with her own, playful touch to it. ... ❝ they are very grand, i must admit. ❞ COMPLIMENT ROLLS OFF HER TONGUE AT EASE, such sweet words, spoken with all the meaning. ❝ much more than i expected, i must admit. ❞
this is what it means to be renascent — the newfangled breath of a kingdom once amort is watched keenly, greedily, by a collection of hawkish gazes, their whetted eyes waiting for a stutter, a hitch. in this congregation of highnesses, elsa wears immaculacy like a second skin, ethereality exchanged for an impression too royal to be anything but corporeal. (her fawn-legged nation cannot yet withstand the agitated attentions of their tentative neighbors, so she will tuck in her most numinous corners and shape herself into something they can recognize.) when she addresses the lady felicia, her smile is charmingly congenial, though she is surprised to find that it is not entirely an affect.
❛❛ you have my thanks. ❜❜ her head inclines just so, arctic eyes glittering with an unfeigned appreciation. she collects these plaudits, laurels to be crowned upon the heads of her people — all those who strove to ensure tonight’s banquet materialized with ease, from the bakers’ guild to the palace attendants. on the morrow, when the merriment has simmered down, they will all receive their dues.
how curious— only because her eyes are drawn away from the heart of the fête (vertiginous now, in the crowd’s twittering oscillations,) and to her companion’s visage that she notices a flickering movement. lady felicia’s gaze darts to and fro with intriguing celerity, and under the guise of playing dutiful hostess, elsa follows the motion. she recognizes the man: an ambassador from the southern isles, on a hail mary undertaking to reconstruct the charred bridges of their kingdoms’ relations. ❛❛ indeed— we’ve not had the opportunity to hold such gatherings in a long, long time, so it was only fitting that we spare no expense now that we can. ❜❜ it is not the first time she has had to make this apologia, so her words are inflected with a practiced remorse. her dulcet tones turn inquisitive. ❛❛ i hope you have had the time to make your rounds, speak to some other guests? ❜❜
she recalls her memory like a broken record, stammering when it reached the rut-tut of emotion. he sees himself in her that way, walking between the reality the world possessed and the one he pocketed, unshared by others. liminal fog and broken clocks, they are shrunk by their past but beneath the potion-drink of touch, unfurl once more to their true heights at the break-neck of a new day. the night, however listless, will not last; his touch is evidence of it, calling down the first rays of the sunlight where it confides in the crook of her neck. a battle-weary practitioner of post-stress fatigue, he doesn't fight the inevitable. instead, his body segues into the bed with her to bask in a shared, cold-sweat clarity, unhurried to rise or stir.mouth to her temple, he listens and she speaks. curls into him like a love note, struggles with her words.
❛ se på meg. ❜ the twisted knife of satisfaction meets his slender jugular: he likes watching her struggle for eloquence, when she has enjoyed too much of its instances with him. ❛ i'll remember when you can't, because you remember when i don't. that's how it's always been. ❜
the score is settled with a kiss, decoded translation for all that is rendered difficult madness between pleas for help. his heartbeat slow-dances itself into a diligent waltz against her palm when he shifts his palm higher, other arm cushioned beneath her head. ❛ come here. ❜ his free hand curls long arteries of her pale hair around his fingertips, like an idle lover. ❛ let's make you breathe. ❜ then his mouth slits against her own, pressurised steam between lazy, languid breaths coaxed past her lips. it was practiced and familiar, a thousand dimly-lit moments sequenced between candle, drink, lingering looks, and an immortal oath. there is no reminder of the fog in him now, nothing but the near-stinging heat of his nails at her back. ❛ there— there you are. ❜
he is beset with the same certainty that has eluded her dream-slick palms, and it sinks its teeth into her fear-bloated heart, a better cage than her brittled ribs. day breaks against her skin in little skeins of sun, light filling the pockmarks left by her closed-eye terrors, chasing away the promise of lasting scars. he commands her gaze in the tongue of her mother, and in doing so drives far the brume of any lingering disquiet. the threat of frost, flowering from tremulous fingers, is no match for the warmth of his conviction; it sputters into nothingness as her hand finds domicile upon heated skin, seeking greedily the ceaseless drumbeat of life. in the half-haze of her unburdened consciousness, she wonders how he can speak their unchanging truth like an aphorism, like a simple fact — as though it is not the very gospel by which she returns to herself in a stumble, a fawn finding her first legs.
she is reminded, not for the first time, that they are sewn together by a thread thickened by time and nurture and a continuing, painstaking choice, all hard-won. splayed as she is, his arm cushioning the ache of a head so heavy — crowned with the thorns of an inexhaustible memory — she sinks into him like etiolated flora at the hush of wintertide. her eyes, however, when they flutter open to meet his, are a softened, springtime hue. ❛❛ elskede, ❜❜ is a reverent murmur, striking true to the marrow of him, ❛❛ i am all out of sorts tonight, aren’t i? ❜❜
—but she goes where he leads her, to the invitation of his lips and the whispered commitment to a shared breath, his languorous exhales enticing her every febrile heartbeat into docility. their mouths seal together like an oath; with every wisp of air passed between them, the knot in her chest unravels and the quake beneath her skin steadies. she inhales, and is relieved to find that she can. ❛❛ here i am. ❜❜ finally. ❛❛ here i am, with you. ❜❜
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[cracking knuckles,]
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