Transcendental Dialectic

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                                      Crossover Friendly                                            AU Friendly                                         Verse dependent

                                       TW        /         CW

           Gore, Violence, Death, Horror, Trauma, Despair, Loss

                              NetflixVania fandom DNI

There were a comfort in the thought. A comfort beyond that of mere self righteous enactment, to cast statement against He above all with every mote of self that has grown tired and pained with the squabbling of Gods and their motives. Yes, a kind of manner that recreated something foul into something righteous, for it were crafted in the fires which licked clean every portion of the human form. Death, there without death.

Stepped from one plane unto another, where sleeping were itself cleansing fires. Sleeping so long, that I even fancied it an idealistic, permanent marker for the many memories inside. Humanity foils documentation haplessly, but not I. Not I, whose very bones warmed with every script ever written, every murmur, or fair breeze. That in this embodiment of something new were something immortal, defiantly immortal, with no syllable altering nor lost.

And there within that fanciful dream did I forgo the reality that is yawning years without you. Deprived of warmth sans these flames of ire, where agony wept against the very memory. A fleeting thing, even unto me, where emotional refuge had been the safest place to lean. And now to ask: what becomes of these immortal things when years collapse into themselves, yearning churned hallowed now vacant as fields after war? Where should emulation begin, lest I forget the simplest things? Lest I forget memory itself, eroding fast -

       What a peculiar little breed.         Is it Hector’s? Though he has not known the man to fancy animal breeding more than merely and simply taking in any and every odd creature. Still, it isn’t entirely out of the possibility, seeing that the Forger has occasional free time...

          Maybe the family would like another pet...           “You are friendly, aren’t you?” Odd to hear his own voice here without them. Quite normally, practically mute when bereft of their company, a smile dares suggest itself to curl, hidden somewhere past his beard. A long, spindly hand reaches down and pets the little thing, retracting claws to better do so.

                     “You would say so?” Of course he would. Mathias always prefers a thick veneer of pride and (not always) quiet superiority, as much as Leon prefers his own far humbler tendencies. Perhaps its a bit of a paradox then to pen such a word as humble to a man quite like Mathias, always towering and resplendent and mighty–and well, always unwilling to be wrong about this, that or the other, usually. Stubborn, Leon thinks to himself with no small sense of joy welling in his chest as his lips quirk, mirthful and red as he listens to the deep shudder of the other man’s laughing voice. The blonde protests nonetheless from his trappings of blankets and duvets and cooling damp spread over his forehead under the elder’s mindful touch. “Well…I have always known you as irrefutably proud in your own right, that much is true. But I’ve known you humble too in your own quiet little ways–how you always shrink from praise or kindnesses. Oh, Mathias, really–you are quite the lovely paradox in that regard. I can never be certain of when you’ll balk at the things I say to you, or that I do. I…” A huff pitches from his chest. A little shrill, a little hoarse–but full of all the feeling Leon struggles to better demonstrate when his flesh is so traitorously weak with fever. 

                        Not that he’ll let that come between him and his ardent praise.

                        “I think you are all the more charming for it. Even if it is a beauty of yours you do not recognise, or perhaps do not want to.” His smile is satisfied with the sound of those words, wider for them having been said. He watches close for the suspected inevitability of a blush creeping on Mathias’ face–the way it often warms his cheeks when the youngest tries his hand at flattery (mayhaps it’s the knowing that Leon is painfully genuine.) Even if it seems the elder is consumed too much with his own worries to redden at the barest bit of kindness. He scolds, barely, with the insistence that Leon behave more appropriately for the occasion. Leon struggles quietly to comply as his smile dulls down to a faint little moue of thought instead and turns those dozy blues skyward. Nothing much to look at that is more sightly than Mathias, but he thinks the man better off without his fawning eyes. At least for a moment.

                          “I know…” He breathes in eventual surrender–wounds turned sour and the fevers that follow them are never laughing matters, after all–and the soldier shrugs with what little strength he has. “It’s merely that I struggle to be fearful of anything when I am with you, much less a dull kiss of fever. I feel better in myself already for having you attend me.” A glance, sparing and curious as it travels over the tactician’s face and down toward the meal he is so delicately preparing. A little too delicately, even, which in itself rakes Leon’s heart over the coals of such an overwhelming endearment. “Though I promise I won’t be struggling from my sickbed all too soon. I’d hate to worry you so.” He can’t help but chuckle the slightest to that, propping himself a little more comfortably on the den of pillows and cushions at his back when the first mouthful is offered, and not without a certainly comical muttering of concern from the other man’s mouth. Leon all but grins his reassurance as he leans to accept the spoon held carefully in reach.

                       “I am feverish, Mathias. Not utterly helpless.”

        This guest room, by design, feels almost an ode now to that very mellowing spirit Leon embodies. No matter his momentary sternness, his contemplative thoughts hidden behind a blanket of fever more than any duvet atop him. This room inspired by the summit of spring, the crisp renewal seems almost to the Tactician now something dream-inspired, something foretold in-between the sheets of consciousness and unreality of fanciful, beautiful things. And, subconsciously, bedded in the deepest, most hushed portions of his mind is the acknowledgement towards a kinship between Leon and Elisabetha, who crafted this room within an elegance only govern by a sovereign love, an ardent expression beyond the vocal, or touch, or the sometimes clumsy, experimental expression of prayer. An acknowledgement which, having suggested itself amidst this sleep-sick, hapless timing, surrenders Mathias by far more susceptible to these words of praise and needle-accurate assumptions. Even if these words have been spoken before - a great many times before - they now crest as something unusually powerful, natural in their seizing of him which brings not just such bashfulness as prior incidents, but the dawning of complete wistful expression. Leon may at times spare him his wont of adoring glances, however something in Mathias refuses him the same quiet gentility. No, for in lieu, greyed-blue eyes lid heavily in regards to him. Perhaps it is acceptance at last to these words, or belief in them, or both - Mathias only knows to take in a margin of breath, lips parted, breathing no better than Leon in the currents of wild heartbeats.

          Breathing which eases only, too, a margin when Leon vocally agrees to cautious manner. Lifting worry from his brow where exhaustion-ladden thought precedes it. Then, of course, diffuses over the sum of moments in cutting bite-sized portions for him to eat. “That you feel such security in me leaves me lost for expression...” truly, searching now as he is at the plate of food for some sort of utterance, for some sort of declaration so sweet. But tender persuasion turns Mathias again to amusement, in between feeding him and, finally, or perhaps as it is inevitably, relieved into a malleable sort that sees him laying down what little guard remained. “I think it perhaps my greatest achievement, then, if your faith in me has been won so tremendously as to be doubtless,” a vigor, then. Something to clutch onto in attempt to get him to finish his meal. Or at least something close to finishing - “Notre foi, notre valeur, Leon,” his tongue twists, but never more than his lips which smile, dabbing each corner of Leon’s own with curled fingers, “Nevertheless, I am afraid to tell you that I do not share in that faith. Perhaps you can find it in your heart to forgive me this weakness, for my insistence of your care-taking for this to fall away from you is... something out of a paranoia I cannot shake. Perhaps it selfish, too, to be so woebegone over something I have cured in you before, in countless before - but this is a sin of little faith that I cannot help.” Nor does he try, within the moment. Exchanging a spoon for a small glass of water. Brushing back coils of sun-yellow hair behind his ear before gently, tenderly cradling him by the jaw. Running his thumb over cheek, holding him steadily for a kiss to meet that very fevered forehead -

@devilsworn asked:

❝ so, you were listening. ❞

      For a time silence is allowed to take place of explanation. This youth is so keenly skittish, so capture with uncertainty that spoken confirmation lends more credence towards a rightful mistrust than any tangible comfort. Not unusual for Leon to pluck up the wounded lamb, however it is unusual, to say the least, that just such lamb would bare the teeth of something outrageously savage. So the Lord peers. The crown of his head tilted back so marginally as observation is made more around the boy.