SOLAR ECLIPSE.

WHAT IS HE DOING HERE? ———— that is not one question but many entangled into a single query that rests, heavy, upon his shoulders and around his throat, twisting and tangling and threatening to asphyxiate him outright. a question so simple / a question so harrowing that he nearly dismisses it outright but it reverberates in his mind : a dull ringing.

WHAT IS HE DOING HERE in this city in this wretched city and WHAT IS HE DOING HERE wearing these clothes these pauldrons clad in white as if that is a sign of rebellion that could begin to wash his soul clean WHAT IS HE DOING HERE and here and here and alive—here and not there nor anywhere else but instead, here. an exquisite sort of suffering. the most terrible prison of all.

( and the answer to it all is this : that he is a fool who thinks himself a protector and a defender / that he believes his sister’s safety is far more important than her love and respect / that he justifies these atrocities and the blood on his hands that is his own and not with duty. )

but those aren’t the question of now. the question of now is : what is he doing here with this woman. again. if he were to believe in FATE this would be uncanny / and if he were to believe in COINCIDENCES this would be odd / but instead this is simply a stroke of bad luck, to be brought back to this terrible city again and again and again ( far more frequently, as of late ) and to keep running into her, somehow. some way.

it would be a lie to say that she is a breath of fresh air or anything of the like. there is something odd about her and strange about her and almost unsettling about her, the smiles that she wears and the way that she carries herself. the way that she almost seems to be everywhere and nowhere but, in truth, it’s simply that she flits from place to place like an undecided bird, choosing a place to nest. SHE CARRIES THE ESSENCE OF THE FOREST. that is a baldfaced lie.

but if she were to stand among the razed remnants of his home, it may well sing to her : dead or not. that is something he knows instinctively. what he means, he could not tell you.

❝ no, you don’t, ❞ the words are dry and his tone is impatient and it occurs to him to simply WALK AWAY FROM THIS WHOLE CHARADE / he could. he should, truly. he is a SOLDIER, first class, and has better things to do than this / but then again : he so resents that title and this place and something almost childlike in him demands that he stays. just a bit longer.

after all, he had stormed away from lunafreya’s apartments not so long ago. where else is there to be, in this crypt of a city? nowhere. nowhere at all / not with rage simmering and resentment screaming.

and thus : he is here. with her. this woman and her storm—like nature once more.

his mouth parts and / he does not speak with the forest, any longer. he has been razed. tempered with steel. ❝ cease your poor attempt at acting, ❞ impatience becomes him and if he were another her personality and tendencies and attitude would be CHARMING, perhaps. charming and disarming.

he remembers her : at that restaurant he had eaten at / standing among the guards with a set jaw and shoulders with humor still pulling at her mouth / assisting at the weapons smith that he had almost begun to frequent / painting a long abandoned building with others / selling overpriced flowers, one of which he had bought compulsively and half wanted to destroy when he had left her behind ———— it is less that she is memorable ( though she is, in a manner of speaking ) and more that he takes note of repetition. a thing never to be trusted.

perhaps he shall never see her again. truly, this time / if his plan is to come to fruition / haphazard and half—formed as it may be, now / brought to light by his anger and lunafreya’s disappointment. but she shall be free, soon enough.

( mother, forgive me. )

❝ surely your pride can suffer my assistance once more, ❞ he cannot remember the last time he had spoken kindly / and is not sure if she has ever spoken kindly to him, either. ( does he know her name? does he? he must ———— she must have told him, once upon a time, in the past handful of years that they have crossed paths again and again / somewhere along the line / or maybe the flower she had given him told him after all ) but that is an unfair judgement.

and she turns to him with a furrowed brow and a set to her mouth and something sparking in her eyes / and he almost wonders who this woman who flits about the slums of this putrid city clad in brighter than standard colors and carrying something half—familiar alongside her is.

          ❛  you’ve been wandering around for hours now.  ❜     it’s not that she’s been watching him — she hasn’t / she can’t / things have been too busy back on the planet’s surface / cloud is fighting / marlene is worried / denzel is — 

     denzel is dying. 

          it’s not that she has the time to watch spirits that cannot find their way back to the lifestream, but the flowers do. they linger where she steps, and they hold fast to their roots when she leaves. long enough to bloom. long enough to be. he has not left the flowers, so the flowers have not left him.

      and this is what it means to find the promised land.    ❛  is it that … you’re ready to go back ?  ❜     //  @solscourge​

❝ no, ❞ the word is bitten in his mouth / mangled / bloody as his body as blood—soaked as his skin but here he is pure but what is purity, besides? there is no such thing and if there were such a thing it would not be HIM, he knows. he knows. he ( ... ) knows.

the flowers speak, here. she can hear them / he can hear them. can others? are there others here? is this place in its otherworldly nature ( for it is another world, another plane, another place unlike that which he left unfinished and PERISHING, STILL, WILL THE ONE TRUE KING RISE WILL HE SIT ON HIS THRONE WILL ———— there was once a crown of leaves upon his brow ) transcendent in language?

they have been watching him. has his sister? she isn’t here, he knows. somewhere else. far.

     ❖     and this  —  this they call the promised land.  this  —  they call paradise.  in life,  she wore bruises on her knees and spat blood from her lips.  she was a sinner like all are sinners,  body crowded with demons,  mind crowded with fears.  a spindly weed growing up in the slums waiting to be cut down. 

            and she was cut down.             and they cut her down. 

     in a way,  she thinks that life never became her.  that she was living the way all were living,  by halfs,  with regrets,  teeth filed down by the dull edge of a sword.  the planet was shackled by shinra,  and she,  another word for motherland,  had watched herself be shackled, too. 

     he looks like another sacrificed child.  he bears the mark of a remnant,  a ghost of a man,  the hollowed corpse of his pride made brutal.  

                                and yet …  he sees the flowers.                                 and yet,  they see him,  too. 

     she is not far off.  she never is.  the promised land exists where she exists.  it leaves when she leaves.  it holds her heart like scripture and builds itself from her memories.  she remembers lilies.  she remembers clouds  ————————  gold hair and silver hair and black hair and SOLDIER and eyes that hold close to ruin until it destroys. 

                                                            his eyes are softer.

     she makes herself solid,  and,       after another moment of study,  she speaks,  ‘ you’re lost. ’ 

               ❝ To be lost insinuates having a place to go, ❞ even here his voice cuts. Even here his voice is severe. Even here there is no place for softness in his tone, in his form. His hand lifts from the flora; flexes. It craves the touch of his blade, it craves the taste of metal. Here, however, there is no place for that. There is no room for that.

                 His spine creaks as he straightens and his shoulders roll and even here he is militant, even here he is hypervigilant; even here his posture screams soldier, warrior, commander. He considers her.

                Beautiful and impossible.                 Untouchable and other.

                He remembers a slight form and hard shoulders and harder eyes and devotion, devotion, devotion; sacrificial slaughter and fields of flowers and yawning forests and the way that they yearned for him, once. They live in him, still. The thudding pulse of the forest. This place is not his. It does not feel like his. There is a wrongness, here. There is no emerald crown waiting for him, here.

                                                         It is hers.

                She makes him think of the glimmering pools hidden deep in the forest. Of staring into their improbable depths. Of thinking of Narcissus and laughing and drinking that water ( crisp and cool and life ) and of a place that is gone. Of the hush that surrounded him, in that place. Of the taste of blood.

                  Flowers as far as the eye can see ( from hill to vale ) and they are glorious, glorious, glorious. He stands amongst them and thinks of sylleblossoms; thinks of blue blooms, of towering trees and time long since past. Thinks of fire. He feels both young and old, here. Time is a paradox and he is trapped in a never ending cycle.

                  He kneels, feels green straining to saturate his form. Reaches out and brushes his gloved hands against the petals, soft —— they would die, if his hands were uncovered. The thought occurs to him, unbidden and abrupt and he remains uncertain whether it is true but finds himself reluctant to test that hypothesis. He smells smoke and fire and knows that is a memory both far off and far too near.

                                        Death has become him, perhaps.

                His strides are long and purposeful and his coat sways and there is something important, here. There is something seething, here. There is something living and breathing and dangerous and his hair stands on end, his teeth clench, his shoulders are stiff. An unhappy form. An unhappy man.

                  Something shifts and he pulls his blade: a compulsion. Silver slices through the darkness and he whirls, movements jagged and aggressive, face twisting into a scowl. His brows furrow. He bears his teeth. ( they had looked at him as if he were an animal and so he became their fear. )

              ❝ Show yourself, ❞ his voice is low, harsh. Disdain drips, saturates, poisons. It claws at his throat and he welcomes its familiar bite.  ❝ You cannot hide from me. ❞

        ravus removes the crown from his head,  and with it,  he abdicates his throne.  She watches as he regresses,  as he shakes a century of rule from his shoulders,  as he tucks nymphs and kingdoms and sprawling forests back into the wardrobe. Ravus the Just.  The Rightful King.  Both are lost in the shadow of an hour,  and nothing remains of his other life but an emerald on her bed.  What’s it like to be turned back into a boy,  she wonders.  What’s it like to become her brother again.

        Her lips part to inquire,  but the pressure on her shoulder transform question to protest.   ‘ I’m fine.’   It is in vain,  of course.  She knows this before she speaks.  He is predictable.  As she is.  As they all are.  He places his hand on her shoulder because that is what is expected,  and she places her hand on his because that is what she should.  Their eyes meet.  

        She can see the lingering reflection of trees. 

        ‘ Perhaps Maria will tell you a story.  Shall I fetch her  —— ’                 ‘ ——  But I want you to tell me a story. ’

        If she did not chain him here,  would he pluck the emerald from her bed?  Would he place the crown back on his head?  Ivy coils at the foot of her bedroom door,  and she can hear it calling him.  ‘ I like yours best. ’  Stay,  she implies.  Ignore the call of the wood.

                     In the forest there is peace, in the forest there is serenity, in the forest there is a place of belonging. Time stands still. Among the trees and their roots and the glory and the splendor. He could be lost forever —— but it would never allow him to be lost. Not truly. Wander as he must but it would always lead him back, would always take him to the edge of their lands, for he is not meant to be there.

                    Not when her kingdom is here.                                    Hark ! The King of Emerald returns !                                    Hark ! He has surrendered his crown once more !

                    In her he sees towering trees and towering buildings and a blurring of the two, something unspeakable, something impossible. In her he sees the gods and the stars and the moon herself; he sees the world and all its gifts. ( one day he will see the world and all its cruelties in her, too. ) In her he hears rustling leaves and the sound of their mother singing and the tremulous awe as the world looks upon the gods’ mouthpiece.

                 ❝ If I recall, you just complained of my stories the other day, ❞ his brow raises and he does not take his hand from her shoulder. She is warm / burning / from the inside out. ❝ It is unbecoming to be so indecisive, ❞ I will stay, always slips in between the minute cracks, the not quite pauses, in his tease and his difficulty.

 the forest is quiet in her absence;  her room is empty in his.  Hourglass sands filter through the gaps in her fingers,  and Lunafreya marks time by the sound of his voice.  By the sound of no voice when he’s gone.  By the echo of a clock ticking on the far wall and the way it sounds like her off-tempo heart.

         Feverish,  she thinks,  I am feverish.  I am illogical.  It must be so.  She closes her eyes,  and the world dissipates.  She opens her eyes,  and it builds itself from memory.  One bed.  Two mirrors.  

         A brother who wears the forest on his face.  

        Quietly,  she reaches out a hand.  Quietly,  she sets it back down.  ‘ It will miss you. ’ Her gaze catches a leaf captured by his hair,  notes how it reminds her of first snowfall,  discards both as she looks away.  ‘ You have a crown. ’

         That rouses something in her,  and before she can think,  she’s already shifting,  twisting,  pushing herself up to sit.  And though her shoulders slump  ——  though she deflates with an aching sigh  ——  a glint of light catches in her eyes.  Sickness may have dulled her,  but still she remains,  a little sister,  a restless child.  Lunafreya appraises Ravus once more before giving way to familiarity.   ‘ Will you tell me a story? ’

                  Even in illness she is dynamic. Even in illness she is ever moving. Even in illness they gravitate towards each other and one day he will be her shield and her blade and she will be the Oracle and queen. Today, however, today and yesterday and tomorrow and for now she is his shadow. He is hers. They are each other’s shadows. ( their servants and caretakers comment on it, in quiet and hushed tones. they shadow each other, as if it so touching and endearing. for them there is no one else. )

                ❝ As do you. ❞ he says, voice light and he reaches up, brushes the crown out of his hair. The forest follows him where he goes, clings to him like a second skin. He finds that he does not mind. Ravus sets the leaf upon her blanketed lap. A splash of green against white, white, white. A gift from the land: for her, for him.

                  Lethargy seems to melt and she is half starkly familiar once more if not for the way she seems to fold. The movement causes his brow to raise and his mouth to curve down and she is restless, restless, restless. Boredom does not suit Lunafreya. It fits her improperly, the way sickness does.

                                                   It has been too long.

                  The kitchen pales in comparison to memories; the halls are too small, the ceilings too low. Outside there is no green, green, green. There are no fields of blue, no lush grounds, nothing at all. His abrupt presence frightens a servant, causes her to jump, tray rattling in her hands. The teapot wavers, the plates shift. He takes the tray from her without a single word, unimpressed with the way she flinches, unimpressed with her, unimpressed with it all.

                  Danger grows the longer he lingers, like a shadow in the evening, like a shadow on the cusp of nightfall. Yet he cannot leave. Not quite yet.

                  She keeps him here, Lunafreya. An anchor with no weight, an anchor with no chain. All of it melds, all of it forms together. Worry concern care anger hatred love resentment protection regret no regrets cannot regret to do what must be done.

               ❝ Eat, ❞ he says, presenting the tray to her. The tea sloshes in its pot, the food shifts. There is harshness in his voice and severity in his form and he does not gentle himself for her. Does not. Cannot. Looks at her and thinks of the forest and that does not soften him; it steels his backbone, sets his shoulders. ❝ Gather what strength you have left. ❞

        sickness drapes upon her like an ill-fitting coat,  too large,  too cumbersome,  too suffocating.  She wheezes under the weight pressed flat against her chest.  She warms beneath the folds of fabric,  skin slicked with sweat,  face flushed with blood.  A haze blurs the hours,  sleep - touched,  and Lunafreya,  age eight,  succumbs to the flu.

        Maria is the most frequent of visitors,  announcing her arrival with the brush of a hand.  Forehead first  ——  burning,  burning,  burning  ——  down behind the ear   ——  hair peeled and brushed back  ——  and around the neck  ——  swollen,  inflamed,  aching.  Something’s murmured,  but it’s too quiet to pick up,  a wordless song that cuts the silence.  Lunafreya struggles and looses free the stray vowels she collected,  lets Maria talk to herself as she works,  leans into the cool rag that replaces her touch.

        Maria is the most frequent of visitors,  but she is not the only.  

                       (  ‘ Her majesty sends her well wishes. ’  )  

       Ravus fills the place of an absent mother.  Did she request him?  She cannot recall.  Sickness pulls her under and under,  and she is sluggish to surface.  It aches to tread water.  It pains to stay afloat.  Nose stuffed,  throat red,  Lunafreya wears sickness like an ill-fitting coat,  and it nearly swallows her whole. 

@solscourge  !

                    The forest is quiet in her absence —— he senses it and therefore knows ( trust your instincts, your royal highness, for they will do you well in battle. ) Knows it the way that he knows his own heartbeat. Knows it the way that he knows her. She is ill and the lands have fallen quiet in acquiescence. Let the princess rest. Let the Oracle to be rest. Let her rest.

                    He walks amongst the trees, over their roots, breathes and breathes and breathes. There is no one to be found. There is no one but the guards assigned to him, lingering in the back. Lingering in the periphery of his attention. Watchful, quiet, protecting. As he will be, one day. One mentions his sister and he knows. He is to see her; he wants to see her.  Dirt turns to grass turns to flowers beneath his feet as he treads towards the manor. Pauses at the edge, palms the sheathed blade at his side, kneels as he draws it out and gently cuts a blossom at the base of its stem. Holds it, soft.

                                        It is a folly, this act. It is meaningless.

                    Finding her room is easy. He knows this path. Knows it the way he knows his own heartbeat. Maria passes on this trek and she smiles at him and he cannot help but smile back. Does not quite smile as he enters her room, but something inside of him goes curiously quiet as he tucks the flower inside of the vase. Five of them, now. Maria must have taken the near wilting one out.