#embya

                       ❛   no   ...   not   a   ghost.   just   a   face   i   never   thought   i’d   see   again.   ❜   he   takes   in   a   sharp   inhale   of   breath   and   holds   it   in   chest.   he’s   afraid   to   blink   ;   if   he   does,   she   could   vanish   from   sight   again.   ❛   what   —   what   are   you   doing   here?   ...   why   are   you   here?   ❜   he   speaks,   whilst   letting   out    that   inhale   of   breath.   it   comes   out   like   a   sigh,   his   chest   feels   tight   and   heavy.   he   cannot  shift   the   weight   that   feels   like   is   lying   ontop.

 it   was   like   a   whole   other   lifetime   ago   ;   they   life   he   had   with   her.   tucked   away   in   that   small   cottage.   the   three   of   them,   just   the   three   of   them.   no   special   titles,   no   burden   to   wear   in   the   shape   of   a   crown.   he   was   a   nobody,   before   he   became   somebody.   then,   came   a   sword.   then,   came   a   sorcerer   and   everything   had   changed.   the   three   of   them,   became   one   of   him   ...   in   a   castle   too   large   and   a   crown   too   heavy.

            “No, my sister is,” she trails off for a moment thinking of the right words. “Well she is a great many things.” Of course Cyrilla had every right to hate her sister, considering her mother had taken Cyrilla’s father from her. Not that Queen Bernadine and King Wyborn had been happy, not for many years. As a girl yes there had been some anger, but years and the weight of her mother’s crown had brought patience and understanding. Of course while Cyrilla had always known of Kahlan Amnell’s existence but it was not until recently that she had actually met her half sister, both now in the roles their mothers had been. She queen of Gaela, and Kahlan newly appointed mother confessor. Cyrilla would not call she and her sister friends, but she liked her well enough. “But there is a reason she is well loved.” She gave a wave of her hand as they walked. 

            “But certainly I am not the only one who has had excitement?” Her gaze turns to her fellow queen, a smile softening her features. “Surely there must be something since last we saw each other.”

the rain was cold.  so cold, in fact, that he had his doubts on whether or not it would not freeze upon his very skin.   it blotted on his lips, pooled in the dark ridges beneath his eyes and just above his shadows on his cheekbones before dripping from his chin.   it soaked the ends of silver-streaked hair and the heavy theatre cloak that was cast about his shoulders to ward off the dread of the frigid season’s breath.   but it was cold.   and it was this very fact that distracted the count from how deeply the knife had cut, sliding through flesh and bone to carve between his ribs, to plunge into his back and let bleed old wounds anew.  

the man stood as stiffly as stone, chin raised and eyes devoid of any and all emotion that might give away the severity of his condition.  unending pain brought forth like pouring blood by memories of antiquity and a lack of human guilt.  he had long since become impervious to the spasms in his face, to the compulsion to kill the one who’d caused it.  

how many women,  he wondered,  had come to haunt the halls of his eerie carpathian fortress since the time of his demise?   how many had lined themselves upon his doorstep with their dainty necks askew, their scarlet lips dripping with the blood of innocent men, and had tried to take the place of a most beloved companion?    how many had he hunted past the point of no return,  weaving through the forests of birch and silver pine in search of red, red fox that had always thought to best him?     none who matched her beauty, her intellect, her kindness          which despite his earnest attempts to hold it to his breast, had long since withered away from his vast, yet fragile memory.  she was a moth-eaten tapestry that he no longer recognized.  an ancient puzzle with scattered pieces that would never be found, despite his desperation of looking for them everywhere and in all the wrong places wedged upon the earth.   

♡    ——     @embya​​​​    ›    "it's always been you, gwen. it will ever only be you."   /   unprompted.

                       it’s   just   the   two   of   them,   with   drawn   back   curtains,   nestled   underneath   the   blanket   of   padmé’s   bed.   gwen’s   running   her   fingers   through   the   other’s   hair,   humming   something   sweet   as   she   goes.   if   peace   was   an   image,   this   would   be   it.   ❛ what’s   that? ❜   she   asks,   having   been   lost   in   thought  and   song   when   padmé   spoke.

𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍.     ››     @embya

♡     ——    @embya​​    ›    smooch    /   random.

                        she smiles against her lips, cheeks filling with an ever soft pink. a mountain of books are pressing against her chest ; gwen was just about to head to class for the day, padmé had accompanied her on her walk to campus. she must’ve forgotten to give a proper goodbye, now that she thinks about it — because she had only gotten a couple steps down the path before padmé was calling her back, then pressing her lips against gwen’s own.