#*loveless

loveless, alice oseman. 

❝ Give your friendships the magic you would give a romance. Because they're just as important. Actually, for us, they're way more important. ❞

    He remembers the universal sound of the snow. The loud, the drumming, the musical lilt of the cloudburst that heaped itself upon the sill; collocating events of gale-force furies and belting blizzards that would place themselves in line with the next turbulent forecast. Sometimes, therein Bahamut’s orchestra, the damned would raise their heads. Rending reality, black-mingled might, strangled voices, rancid and rotten, meshing with storm-coils and booms— bludgeoning him with enmity as if they rode the squall like a vengeful knight to a steed. When one lingered on one’s own, they would bark and blast, unheard by the innocent. They would wail their resentment (how dare you!, how dare you!), chill him with exquisite fear, stick around yonder in their frozen battlements, in the hollow trunks of trees, in the hallucinatory floors of his kingdom; waiting and waiting with their single-minded spleen—

    How could you betray us!                            you are dying.              MONSTER. MONSTER. MONSTER.                                 you are dying.                     YOU WERE NEVER A HERO TO BEGIN WITH!                                     you are going to die—-

        “Ah, Shi-ren?”

         He often saw her as a white blur defined by the yew-bark contours of the next room. Oft holding a small tray mounted by various indiscernible shapes of cups and beakers, each chess piece of her effects exuding their own mist, arising with the pallid glow of her semblance as if what he saw was a humble valley scene— a collection of mounts, of archangel glens, encircled by the frigid mantle of the lofty heights, or perchance of a lone orchid beset by its own light. She would smile, like she always had done, the billowing ails that rattled the roof and rafters dying into the thunder whene’er she would relay a chime, bringing forth his meal for the eve; her face alight with the excitement to aid him. With petals flown, alabaster guardian— a STAR OF HEAVEN whose lithe, dainty hands did not condemn the callousness that disfigured the mighty ranges of his hands (the eskers of dragon-slayers), shining all the while with an understanding and receptivity that no soul of Midgar was pure enough to haul. Aye— come eventide, she did not leave his side. Blessed bloom whom slumbers aside sin, unafraid of the blight that clings to scarred flesh— smoothing away the aches with bare strokes of ivory bracts; blood-letting plains of once sun-kissed scopes taken into the wealds of her compassion.

        If I was to die here,               under this roof:                     I would not mind.

       The howls of pestilence, the cloying whispers of madness— beneath this roof, in the arms of a delicate blossom, the harsh discordance of their delivery could not quite penetrate the sanctuary of which she had unwittingly built. She was oblivious to the darkness that she held. Unknown to the horrors that dwelled deep in the volcanic swirl of mako and sapphire. A floral freight caught on the current of a transient sea whose greatest depths were of a hue darker than any evil that she may have known. Still, she was spared. Given kindness, the brittle curl of a unopposed and bloodied hand. A rare lenity fused with the advent of kisses; of tender nights cold ‘neath silver silks.

✤ — a memory that involves romance/love

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,        and so live ever — or else swoon to death.                   — John Keats 

     He remembers the universal sound of the snow. The loud, the drumming, the musical lilt of the cloudburst that heaped itself upon the sill; collocating events of gale-force furies and belting blizzards that would place themselves in line with the next turbulent forecast. Sometimes, therein Bahamut’s orchestra, the damned would raise their heads. Rending reality, black-mingled might; strangled voices, rancid and rotten, meshing with storm-coils and booms— bludgeoning him with enmity as if they rode the squall like a vengeful knight to a steed. When one lingered on one’s own, they would bark and blast, unheard by the innocent. They would wail their resentment (how dare you!, how dare you!), chill him with exquisite fear, sticking around yonder in their frozen battlements, in the hollow trunks of trees, in the hallucinatory floors of his kingdom; waiting and waiting with their single-minded spleen—

      How could you betray us!                             you are dying.              MONSTER. MONSTER. MONSTER.                                 you are dying.                      YOU WERE NEVER A HERO TO BEGIN WITH!                                      you are going to die—-

         “Ah, Shi-ren?”

          He often saw her as a white blur defined by the yew-bark contours of the next room. Oft holding a small tray mounted by various indiscernible shapes of cups and beakers; each chess piece of her effects exuding their own mist, arising with the pallid glow of her semblance as if what he saw was a humble valley scene— a collection of mounts, of archangel glens, encircled by the frigid mantle of the lofty heights, or perchance of a lone orchid beset by its own light. She would smile, like she always had done, the billowing ails that rattled the roof and rafters dying into the thunder whene’er she would relay a chime, bringing forth his meal for the eve, her face alight with the excitement to aid him. With petals flown, alabaster guardian— a STAR OF HEAVEN whose lithe, dainty hands did not condemn the callousness that disfigured the mighty ranges of his hands (the eskers of dragon-slayers), shining all the while with an understanding and receptivity that no soul of Midgar was pure enough to haul. Aye— come eventide, she did not leave his side. Blessed bloom whom slumbers aside sin, unafraid of the blight that clings to scarred flesh— smoothing away the aches with bare strokes of ivory bracts; blood-letting plains of once sun-kissed scopes taken into the wealds of her compassion. 

          If I was to die here,                under this roof:                      I would not mind. 

        The howls of pestilence, the cloying whispers of madness— ‘neath this roof, in the arms of a delicate blossom, the harsh discordance of their delivery could not quite penetrate the sanctuary of which she had unwittingly built. She was oblivious to the darkness that she held. Unknown to the horrors that dwelled deep in the volcanic swirl of mako and sapphire. A floral freight caught on the current of a transient sea whose greatest depths were of a hue darker than any evil that she may have known. Still, she was spared. Given kindness, the brittle curl of a unopposed and bloodied hand. A rare lenity fused with the advent of kisses; of tender nights cold ‘neath silver silks.