#altarwriting

He tried his hardest to keep their voices in the front of his mind, but as time passed and he adjusted to Felonde of Aeonia, they began to fade altogether. It had upset him, angered him -- and he had cried a few times at thought of losing their memory and their warmth.

Matija did his best to feel comfortable in a country that desperately tried to fend off the Church and desperately tried to integrate every person out there that sought freedom and acceptance. Yet, he always felt like he sticks out like a sore thumb -- he was different, right? Just an orphaned child who did his best to survive until he could leave, just an adult to avoid because his village had succumbed horribly to an illness.

And home was pulled out from underneath him, kept him blindly searching for what it could mean. He would feel jealous of patients, of strangers, who easily fell in love and started families, happily talking about their homes, and sometimes, he would feel ill instead of angry. Jealousy is not a kind emotion.

But then Aston comes in, with his bright and lovely brown eyes, loud voice, and boisterous attitude. And Matija had never wanted to be around someone so bad, no matter the circumstances -- the distrust he felt towards both Aleks and Aston. But Aston was made up of smoke and mirrors, half lies and wry smiles bouncing off every once of them, putting those who wanted to get close to him off. He was deceitful, he was angry. Just like Matija.

And Matija wanted to get through those smoke and mirrors, strip them down and face whatever was left.

And he did -- briefly for a night. There was someone different in his bed, someone who was genuine and honest, somber expressions with smoke wafting in the night air and honest conversations.

Matija worked through those cracks in the mirror, chipping away until he found Aston beneath it all -- a victim of something so much bigger than they.

But when their limbs intertwined and sheets entangle, whispered passions and promises -- Matija wonders --

Aleks only knew how to survive through lying — it became a compulsion, a habit, and a necessity if it meant being able to rest easy at night, if it meant being able to eat for the night. She never intended it to become a natural part of who she is because she had held out hope that Tsvetan and his husband would come back for her and that they would be able to be a happy family. Even under torture, she would never admit to how she used to dream of the day they would all leave this place of hell and she could call them her dads in public. The day that they had left, her dreams were shattered into a million pieces and she never quite knew how to recover from that. Commander Lazar had taken joy in telling her that they left, and it was entirely because of her.

Aleks had never meant to feel so angry, she had never intended for her heart to break the way it did. But she wasn’t angry in the way other people were — no it just sat in her stomach and it burned. It burned until it could no longer burn, and all that left behind in its ember and soot was nothing more than shell who could not quite breathe correctly, who could not bring herself to accept the idea that family was something she could ever have. And she learned to accept it, because she waited and waited for them to come back and tell her that Lazar was lying to her.

And what Aleks does not understand is how Aston can so freely express himself, how the words can fall from his lips without a second thought. He does not apologize for how angry he is, he doesn’t mute himself like she does. And Aleksandra envies him for it, she hates him for it.

Because she had to learn to survive by muting herself, her survival depended on quick apologies, passivity, and shutting herself down.

(....)

Aston says something, his voice echoing off the walls but she ignores him as she takes strides towards the circle and picks up the skull. She turns to face him, holding it out towards him and he avoids looking at it.

“Is this how we all end up?” Despite how hard she tries not to let it, her voice cracks.

Aston stiffens.

“Dead?”

“This is how we’ll all end up if we don’t figure out —” He’s unable to complete his sentence as Aleks continues to walk away. She doesn’t want to listen to him, she doesn’t want to hear the quiver in his voice and see how on edge he is. If she does, she will start to feel afraid herself — and she doesn’t want to. The entire mission will come to a standstill if she does, and finishing this mission is utterly important to her, regardless of what they might see and find. She is empty and nothing more than a monster, after all. A monster, a demon — a weapon. Aston is slowly trailing after her.

Last night, she had figured something out — the missing puzzle piece to it all. Yes, it is Iara he’s trying to bring back, but she’s not Luna. Luna — or Sariel, really — was the monster in her nightmares, angry at the fate she had chosen for herself. Angry at the world and she thrashes at Aleks’ rib cage and screams within her subconscious, scratching at the walls late at night as she froths at the mouth for the perfect revenge. She can’t believe it took her so goddamn long to figure out, and there was another thing to that dawned on her.

Aston and Sparrow. The way they whispered to each other, the way he carries himself — hunched and guilty — and she knows that she will die tonight. It’s something she has prepared herself for the last few hours. And quite honestly? She’s ready to die now.

She stops and studies the walls nearest to her — and another door that leads further into the torture chamber. There are deep, bloody claw marks — acts of desperation to escape whatever happens to them in this room. And a presence lingers, and it is heavy.

And when times changed, simply offering an escape towards those women had to end as elite hid themselves in the far corners of Felonde, weary and wary for their own lives as damnation only gets closer to Aeonia’s borders. They all know the Church will never keep their promise.

But still, Sparrow offers any curious soul a way out -- an escape on the blue waters that seem like they never end. It’s the only way they can still feel as if they’re fulfilling their disgraced role - after all, the one who creates life cannot let people die so easily. But they did.

And they continue to do so.

Their ship feels as though it is a prison of red wood, white sails, and taunts them with an ideal they can never quite reach. Freedom.

Freedom meant seeking for forgiveness from a woman long dead.

Freedom meant ending the bloodline they overlooked.

Freedom means time finally making sense.

Freedom means self-forgiveness, but Sparrow cannot forgive themselves for what had happened.

They find freedom or something close in Micha’s arms, where years of anger and hurt only simmers to a quiet whisper when she speaks to them. Night time, the siren’s song is only lulling and barely tempting. And Micha became their definition of freedom, regardless of how weak and easily frayed it can become.