#amidla

SIKEN  -  WAR  OF  THE  FOXES.  ACCEPTING. STARTER.

‘ this  is  also  part  of  the  story:  how  the  story  changes.  this  is  something  I  forgot  to  tell  you.'   @amidla​

❝      you  forgot?  just  that  easy?     ❞    it’s  bitter.  tastes  like  pine  thorns  as  they  scrape  flesh  in  your  warm,  raw  mouth.

to  think  there  is  blood  on  your  young  hands.

❝    you  haunt  my  nights  for  years,  and  you  only  think  to  remember  now,  sweet  senator?    ❞   careful  now,  lazarus.  choose  your  next  actions  with  the  absence  of  blasphemy.  take  the  rusted  end  of  your  daddy’s  old  crowbar  and  pry  out  the  broken  pieces  of  god  that  lay  corrupt  in  you.  show  her  the  parts  where  she  too  had  the  most  sacred  part  in  its  apollesthai  corrupting,  front  center  and  holy  stage. 

❝     tell  me,  did  you  remember  his  love,  too,  or  did  you  forget  that  as  well? ❞      pry  her  fingers  from  your  fourth  rib  and  tell  her  how  it  was  her  love  that  did  it.  ( no  love  is  stronger.  no  heart  more  abandoned  than  yours,  my  sweet  senator. )  scream  about  the  little  boy  with  the  heathen  eyes  in  the  sweet  town  lost  in  the  sands  of  a  lovelorn  settlement  and  how  he  went  missing,  tell  her  how  the  town  treated  it  as  nothing  new.  tell  her  how  he  was  resurrected  only  in  rhyme  the  same  day  her  heart  bled  for  the  heathen  boy  she  loved,  and  how  the  galaxy  continues  to  drown  in  its  bloody  sacrament.  tell  her  about  the  pastor  with  the  snakes  in  his  hands  and  how  he  ripped  the  jugular  straight  from  a  girl’s  neck  and  called  it  homage  to  their  starcrossed  love.  tell  her  the  girl  was  you.

@amidla​ said: ‘ do you want something to eat? ’ :')

       there  wasn’t  such  a  thing  as  a  PERFECT QUEEN  nor  was  there  an  existence  of  some  sort  of  stencil  that  one  was  able  to  cut  out  to  recreate  something  that  resembled  a  good  ruler.  this,  symphony  needed  to  remember,  especially  on  the  days  she  found  herself  staring  at  the  portraits  of  past  monarchs  that  adorned  the  hall  of  the  palace,  wondering  if  she  could  even  compare.  a  thought  that  admittedly  HAUNTED  her  throughout  the  gruesome  weeks  that  was  her  election  and  even  the  weeks  that  soon  followed  after  her  eventual  coronation.

       a  good  queen  needed  to  be  fearless.  her  voice  needed  to  remain  low  and  strong  to  mask  whatever  fears  or  worries  lay  beneath  pale  make-up  and  extravagant  dresses.  for  the  good  of  naboo,  she  must  never  reveal  her  cards.

       perhaps  it  was  her  wild,  dilated  eyes  or  her  helplessly  expressive  eyebrows  that  would  shoot  upwards  at  every  fretful  thought  that  caught  the  former  queen’s  attention.  symphony  quietly  thanked  the  maker  for  the  make-up,  knowing  without  it  she  would  truly  horrify  people  with  how  her  cheeks  and  eyes  were  deprived  of  essential  blood  flow.

       she  could  not  hear  padme’s  words.  she  was  never  one  to  look  at  her  deafness  with  frustration  as  it  was  something  she  had  made  peace  with  long  ago——but  what  she  wouldn’t  give  to  hear  her  soothing  tone  bless  her  ears  as  she  sat  here  marinating  in  her  anxieties  in  a  throne  meant  for  strong  women.  mind  ablaze,  she  was  sent  into  a  NEAR PANIC  as  she  forgot  to  read  padme’s  lips.  thankfully  her  translating  handmaiden,  bless  her  soul,  caught  on  quickly  and  with  quick  and  agile  fingers,  asked if  she  wanted  something  to  eat.

       ‘  that’s  very  kind  of  you  to  ask,  senator,  ’  a  heavy  exhale  escaped  her  lungs  as  she  finally  spoke,  combating  the  urge  to  break  out  into  a  nervous  smile.  ‘  that  won’t  be  necessary,  unfortunately  food  is  the  last  thing  on  my  mind,  at  the  moment... ’     a pause,      before  the  queen  instead  stood  up  from  her  seat.  ‘  perhaps  some  fresh  air  is  needed.  ’

       all  four  of  her  handmaidens  stood  before  sitting  back  down  as  symphony  urged  them  to  stay,  only  allowing  her  translator  to  trail  behind  her  as  she  made  her  way  to  padme’s  side.  ‘  will  you  walk  with  me,  senator?  i’m  sure  you’d  like  to  take  a  look  at  the  gardens  again  before  you  depart.  ’

𝙸 𝙷𝙰𝙳 𝙰 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚂𝙾 𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚄𝙻𝙸𝙰𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳𝙽'𝚃 𝙱𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴.

STILLNESS HAS SETTLED OVER THE HOUSE BY THE LAKE’S SHORE,   and its inhabitants,   who to some is an odd collection of creatures,   but to vasya a makeshift family of her own  ─   a witch,   a horse,   a mushroom and a house spirit,   have scattered to embrace the last rays of sun the day has to offer before it settles behind the trees on the horizon.

she feels padme before she sees her,   the presence of an old friend welcomed but with a heavy heart.   the tormenting knowledge of why she is able to visit the house at the lake’s edge planted firmly within vasya’s head   ─   she has passed.   but death is not an friend to vasya,   IT IS A LOVER,   a man with the freeing touch of ice after a blazing summer.   padme’s presence is a breeze,   a touch of chill but not enough to raise goosebumps on her bare arms.

›  @amidla  (  deathless  )

“Sweetling...” Oh, wretched was the heart that bore the crown prince! To see such wicked consternation, pale and hollow-boned, crook its crone-boned fingers over the expression of one so young -- it ought be the mark of youth, Baldr thought, that joy came ever-bounding, leaping lamb-like beside that first foray into life, wrought with flashing-teeth smiles and golden laughter, not the haggard lines of the politician drawn harsh into the flesh of the babe. Stony skin and steely heart bid no great rise of emotion, the swell of which might drown the cursed world for those who would place such a burden on still-small shoulders, as would be seen by noble Tyr or loyalest Thor’s unyielding hand; only the ghost of a thing, a pale wraith of a heart felt true, swirling beneath cursed-strong ribs, pressing spark and ember to ancient Light’s bone.

The rage of a child wounded was a terrible thing; screams that could cut a parent to the bone, bared and flashing teeth that could rend and wound and main, but the rage of a boy removed from all...though Baldr had claimed no direct affinity with the Jedi ( to prize removal from all, existence held at arm’s length from the self, in the eyes of one unwittingly cursed so sat ill in the chest, bit sour at the gums ), the soul of the father in him twisted fiercely. If Forseti had been driven to such a position, moved from kindly soul to grieving beast by the murder of sweet Nanna -- could Baldr truly find blame enough to lay at the boy’s door?

“I cannot say there is nothing wrong--” The truth of it tasted cold and heavy upon Baldr’s tongue. There is blood on Anakin Skywalker’s hands now, rotted to the skin, crusted and rust-brown beneath the nails. No words could undo the death of life itself, no tears from Freyja, pale-gold and glittering splashed onto the gored throat of her brother ( no word from a bold messenger, the voice of his dreams whispered, dark-clad and implacable, no thunder-hooves of horses’ speed nor outcry the World Tree over ). “--but you are not wrong to feel this way. He is not wrong in his emotions, though he is wrong in his actions, to rage at the loss of someone close to him. The deaths of others cannot undo the death of one held close, and blood shed cannot undo blood bought. Those sent to Valhöll today will feast until the end-times, but it is no salve.” Gently, softly, the light-god’s hand found Padme’s face, cradling there a moment before drawing her into a solid embrace. The truth could do naught but burn her now, each word flecking glass and black ash to choke all joy from the lungs, but Baldr would not allow Padme to suffer alone.

“ senator, ”  rex  stands  alert  in  the  doorway,  helmet  removed  and  held  against  his  hip  with  one  hand,  “ general  skywalker  sent  me  to  act  as  your  security  detail  for  the  day.  i  understand  there  have  been  threats  made  against  your  safety. ”  expression  remains  stoic  (  his  default  setting!  )  though  there’s  a  touch  of  genuine  concern  in  his  eyes.  rex  has  something  of  a  soft  spot  for  those  closely  tied  to  his  general.  “ are  you  all  right? ”

Long though Torhild had known the circumstance of her birth, of lives created from death orchestrated and intended, and longer still in living with her anger, her rage and her vitriol, towards her apparent creator -- he who had bent and shaped flesh and metal to his whim, to his grand protector’s design, who had snatched life from the breast of the Force with grasping, profane hands -- never had she expected to see her own sentiments reflected in Naboo’s senator. Though her anger was righteous, rage and confusion shared in equal measure across those of her siblings who lived and had yet been found, some still-small part of her, the echo of the Mark II, of the shackled artificial intelligence and loyal constructs that had framed her, fostered by what few responses she had had to her heart, had whispered her emotions to be false; wicked creations set to burn and blaze, inherent darkness where ought to be only temperance and light. Perhaps she had simply grown accustomed to her life’s story, to her siblings’ betrayal, and dwelled there too long, brooding as an ice storm on the horizon.