#alluxerim

THEY CONFUSE THEIR AWAKENING for the end of an unfortunate beginning.  when ophelia’s eyes open, it is with the faint flicker and glint of a shift in time.  they feel lighter but strained.  different but worse.  when they pull themselves up, it is the rough cracks of stone that arch against their back.  a wall; a house wall.  another book this is, yes... yes, indeed.  it must be, right?  the dark robes that cling to their limbs are none the same of their mage attire, fashionably woven to fit them even through cartwheels and backflips on the battlefield.

though, this is not where the other books had begun and closed.  this is not the loop that their mind has accustomed itself to.  ophelia rises with a groan and winces at the ache in their spine, an assumption of how long they have been sitting against this building’s exterior wall.  or, rather, how long they have been hiding.  they can see it now; the strain in their knees from crouching, the lack of sunlight that reaches the space between buildings, the dust and dirt sticking to their robes.  these are not signs of playful banter and pushing.  these are—

a shadow stretches underneath their feet and a sharp inhale seizes their breath.  instinct pushes them away.  instinct presses its hands against their shoulders and knocks them forward in a sprint.  move, their body wishes.  move now or—

violently, their head is yanked back as a scream tears itself from their lips.  their hair is pulled harder, sunlight stings their eyes, bare feet kick up dirt and rocks and it is only their voice that rings throughout the space.  they cannot hear anything else besides the murmurs of annoyance, the sound of fabric stretching when their sleeves and arms are gripped and pulled.

people flash by in colors, the pace of the stride too quick to allow them to recognize the blur of faces and expressions.  half a heart almost tempts ophelia to lean her head over and sink her teeth into the wrist near her face.  half a heart tells her to quiet down, that there will be a chance to try again.  to wake up in the same spot between buildings and run from outstretched hands.  when ophelia blinks, her back slams against the ground and a cough racks her chest and throat.  braids sway and brush against her cheeks when she looks up, pushing her arms beneath her chest to rise from the dirt.

there is no denying the voices she heard.  the recognition that someone she heard before was inside there.  but the moment she rises to her feet, the gates shut with a clank.

it is what brings her to this second, this minute, right here: staring down at the barely fresh water of a creak, gray irises dilated and sepia skin flushed with an emotion she cannot identify.  she does not reach into the water and attempt to wash her eyes.  what she is seeing is real.  what she is, certainly, cannot be.

sick sentence starters

It is bad today. Worse than it has been in recent memory — as far back as she can cast her mind, in truth. Fiora has essentially collapsed where she was, sat outside in the cold, and she’s breathing hard, trying to shove the burning of her bones back to the acceptable box that it sits in always in her brain, where she can struggle with it with with a cool, stoic expression, no one the wiser.

Currently, it is overpowering her, a hurricane with no eye, a volcano with no end.

Though she has hardly done anything so far today, it feels as though she’s gotten into a serious fight — her entire body reverberates with blows she hasn’t received, itchy fire like bites from ants crawling through her extremities. Pin-pricks of pain stab her fingertips, into the soles of her feet. Bones twist and beg like they’ve been broken and shattered, leaving her hardly able to even breathe around it. Every movement, action, and thought is excruciating, and she feels so warm, so horribly hot...

In a moment, she’ll need to get up and go back to work. The thought strikes a strange sort of terror in her, blinding and fierce. She can’t imagine putting weight on her bones like this. It’s too much. She can hardly handle just sitting here...

It’s then that she notices there’s someone that’s come next to her, hand gently rubbing on her back. Has she had an audience this whole time? Slightly teary eyes seek to find long blond hair, sweet blue gaze, and she recognizes his kind countenance instantaneously. “Lucius,” she breathes, and it sounds almost like she’s begging him, because some foggy part of her mind sees him and thinks, He’s a healer, and further thinks, Please, please help me. “Lucius, I...”

And really, it should speak to how far she’s gone, how bad it truly is, that she almost tells him. That she almost lets herself sink into his comforting hand, looks into his eyes, and tells him that she’s in pain. That she’s been in pain as long as he’s known her, and that she needs help managing it, just right now, just for a moment, because it is breaking her down entirely.

But she isn’t so far gone to be cruel. For no matter how badly it hurts, she knows it isn’t his burden to carry her pain. It is only her own. She has to hold it, bear it, smile through it, be the pride of Ilia, the big sister, the commander, the person everyone wants and needs to see when they look at Fiora.

So turns her head away from him, wipes at her eyes, and forces a smile at him.

   Everyone, gather ‘round — come one, come all — come and witness one of those unusual times where Serra is utterly, entirely, and completely silent. 

   The cathedral is huge — the doors look as though they’re more fit to people fifteen feet high, rather than her — the floor is patterned, golds and reds and oranges shaped in diamonds, some circular accents here and there. There are long pews, and tall candlesticks to light up the dim space. But it is huge. The ceiling stretches so high that it goes dark at its point. Intricate, brassy walls have long archways, and though the building frequently opens to the outside, it stays shadowed because of its sheer size.

   Serra is in shock. Her monastery had been small, but while House Ostia was not lacking at all in size, it paled in comparison to this cathedral. 

   She wanders forward, silently, as if pulled by a line, when she catches someone else, sat at a pew. 

   Long blond hair... soft expression... could it be?

   “Lucius!” 

   Her voice and footsteps echo — she runs to his side, gleeful light shading her expression. She doesn’t jump into his arms, but she wishes to, so great is her joy of seeing him again. 

The beorc Leanne is working with--Lucius, his name was?--feels almost like he should have been a heron. Between his long, flowing golden locks and the gentle kindness that nests deep in his heart, he is soothing to be around. He is a holy man, but she does not know what god he serves. Is he as sensitive to order and chaos as she thinks he might be?

Oh! It is rude for her to pry this much, and perhaps she is extrapolating, but her curiosity got the better of her. Best to focus on the task at hand, actually.

"Some of these plants remind me of my home, Serenes Forest." Leanne carefully pats the dirt, eyeballing the distance between seeds. She has always loved plants so, and the garden they kept in the palace was one of her favorite places, though she prefers wilderness. She should go visit the surrounding forest some time, she notes to herself. "We had so many lovely plants throughout the forest, and much thrived there. I should have brought some, I did not know we would have this."