❝ if i said yes, would that satisfy you? ❞ winter—touched tone / accompanied by the barest lift of his brow and an expression not quite irate but rather : so strangely cautious before this man.

SETETH IS A STRANGE MAN ———— that he’s taken an interest in felix, of all people, simply heightens the strangeness he exudes so naturally. at once there’s something distance and all too close about him / though perhaps he’s biased, given the fact that they speak far more frequently than he witnesses seteth speaking to others who aren’t intricately intertwined with the church.

it’s less that he’s a holy man that inspires such distrust in him ( holy / unholy : there’s little room to care so long as attempts to SHACKLE HIM aren’t made and he’s kept bare—wrist and free to struggle against the domineering concept of faith ) and far more that he’s a mystery far more than he isn’t. something odd and incomplete about him that he can’t quite decipher and can’t quite find and can’t quite see and half wants to and half doesn’t / and in large part it’s because FELIX HAS NO FEASIBLE IDEA WHY SETETH HAS SUCH A SPECIFIC INTEREST IN HIM. enough so that he speaks to him. enough so that he watches him. enough so that he insists, so very peculiar, that he spends time with his friends.

❝ i’m not in the habit of lying, however, ❞ whether or not he has friends is questionable on the worst of days and an irrefutable fact on the best of them ———— felix isn’t so arrogant nor narrow—sighted that he denies that there are people who care about him and furthermore that there are people he cares about, in return. THOSE ARE TRUTHS OF THE UNIVERSE. the problem that lies therein is that friendship and otherwise paltry ideals are so naturally born from things that he struggles with at the best of times, nowadays.

after all : the attempted isolation of the self doesn’t lend well to the camaraderie of friendship / and it’s rather difficult to be friends when he so deeply denies the CONCEPT THEREIN. bonds and ties and things which shackle him / ah, there it is. shackle him. ( again and again and again. repetition, remember? )

❝ you’re right. they could use my guidance, ❞ well : there’s a difference between arrogance and self—confidence backed by fact and skill that has been trained and honed and sharpened from that which dwells within naturally, and all. ❝ but they don’t wish to hear it. and catering to my ego will hardly encourage me to socialize. ❞

there’s a perilously thin line which separates revealing far too much and not enough and he treads it constantly when speaking to seteth ———— felix is transparent to a point, though people hardly acknowledge it beyond his blunt honesty, but a great deal of the time it feels as though seteth sees FAR TOO MUCH, for reasons that he can’t discern, try though he may. ❝ i find little use spending time with my friends. is that not enough for you? ❞

it isn’t, he knows. it can’t possibly be. he’s seen / and he’s watched / and he watches in return : an nonequivalent exchange.

@eldriytch liked for a starter for merrill

@eldriytch​ + ASKED FOR SOMETHING FROM SIA.

   breathe   in,   breathe   out,   sometimes   elysia   forgets   to   breathe,   lungs   still,   body   a   mockery.   all   they   are   is   magic,   anyway,   given   form   in   the   way   they   want.   but   familiarities   stay,   a   fondness   an   itch   you   can’t   reach;   the   red   hair   will   always   stay   for   them,   red,   red,   red,   like   poppies,   like   flame,   like   a   voice   that   no   longer   calls   their   name. 

   do   they   know?   elysia   pokes   and   prods   at   bones,   as   if   ephemera’s   ribs   might   murmur   an   answer,   gaze   upturned   to   watch   their   paramour.   like   a   cast   not   fully   formed,   the   clay   cracks   and   spills   and   elysia   has   to   remind   themselves   that   as   much   ephemera   was,   is,   and   continues   to   be   more   than   the   world   should   have   still   had   the   power   to   grant,   she   is   not   death   in   fullness.   so   close,   painfully   close,   enough   to   breathe   in   but   not   enough   to   grasp   in   their   hold.

   ephemera   looks   down   on   them,   and   elysia   reminds   themselves   that   it   does   not   matter   --   ephemera   is   their   sweetling,   young   and   now   painfully   old,   reaching   to   them   equally   as   possessively   as   they   are   gently.   most   of   all,   it   is   nice   to   be   wanted;   most   of   all,   the   differences   are   boons,   surprise   enough   to   make   elysia’s   heart   flutter.   nuzzling   into   ephemera’s   belly,   elysia   smiles.      ❝  SWEETLING, I LOVE THE LOVE YOU HOLD FOR ME. I LOVE LOVING     YOU.  ❞    elysia   peeks   up   at   ephemera   again,   devilish   in   their   lopsided   grin,   red   curls   haphazardly   splayed   over   ephemera’s   thighs. 

“ What do stars do? ”

Her     usually     wolfish     smile     is     bittersweet,     blood     splattered     over     her     face     and     the     white     fur     of     her     collar,     longing     filling     her     chest     for     Genya’s     red     kefta.     Ciri     wants     to     give     her     something     to     hold     onto,     words     of     hope     and     encouragement,     but     Ciri     knows     how     this     goes.     Genya     was     no     healer,     and     even     if     she     were,     it     would     take     substantial     power     to     bring     Ciri     back.     She     can     feel     the     𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒕     raging     within     her,     desperate     to     live     as     she     bleeds     out     slowly     in     the     snow.     𝑻𝒉𝒆     𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔     𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒗𝒆     𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈     𝒇𝒐𝒓     𝒉𝒆𝒓,     𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓     𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒏     𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓     𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏     𝒕𝒐     𝒓𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒆     𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉     𝒕𝒉𝒆     𝒔𝒌𝒚.     Silvery-grey     curls     slowly     soak     from     the     snow,     face     somehow     serene     given     all     the     pain     she     was     in.     Even     so,     she     manages     to     slide     a     single     pale     hand     into     red     curls,     smiling     like     the     stars     for     a     few     scant     moments.

“Stars     die.     The     night     sky     is     full     of     dead     stars,     my     dear.”     Somewhere,     a     wolf     cries,     and     tears     flood     silvery     eyes,     the     brilliant     gold     and     shining     green     and     lovely     violet     slowly     fading     away     as     she     did.     “But     even     after     they     die,     you     never     really     know     when     they’re     gone.     Even     after     they     die,     they’re     still     watching     over     you.”     She     laughs,     and     blood     bubbles     out,     staining     pale     skin     as     her     thumb     rubs     beneath     a     single     golden     eye.     “I’ll     never     really     be     gone.” 

it  was  automatic,   even  in  the  dingy  apartment  building  they  were  searching  through.    the  way  claire  turned.    she  was  crouched  down,  one  latex  glove  on.    head  peered  over  her  shoulder,   blue  eyes  finding  jill’s  very  directly  and  immediately.     the  fingers  in  that  blue,  latex  glove  just  rests  on  the  dresser  handle.     out  of  all  the  years  they’ve  known  each  other;    now  jill  wants  to  have  a  feelings  conversation.    she’s  not  going  to  oppose --    she’ll  take  it  any  time.    it’s  not  like  handling  biohazard  problems  isn’t  most  of  their  life  anyway.     claire’s  still  looking  right  at  jill  when  her  nose  wrinkles...   listen,  sometimes  she  knows  what  to  say,  other  times  she  just  yells  and  curses  until  she  gets  what  she  wants;    she’s  just  really,   really  trying  to  be  delicate.

“   ---    is  this  about  our  job  or...   us?     chris,  you  and  i...   us.   ”

                         ❛     prince dimitri -----?   i’m sorry,   i hadn’t heard you arrive -----.     ❜                  bow at the ready,   notched arrow yet in hand.   she’s ready to release,   focused upon her target,   upon her aim ... ...   and then the voice which calls to her,   echoing across the training room,   finally reaches her ears,   and before she knows it,   she’s snapped out of her archer’s daze entirely.   quickly,   perhaps bashfully,   she lowers her weapon and gives the other her full attending,   a slight bow of head to apologize.              ❛     ah,   is there something i can help with?     ❜