#godleid

THERE IS no sleep as dreamless as this: no sleep at all / no waking / no consciousness. The dark skyless sky is a threadbare blanket, frayed at the edges between un- and real. OH MOTHER / SEAMSTRESS: weaving ribbons of sinew between her calloused hands ... Is it only in these fleeting moments, these century-long seconds, that I may feel your gentle, guiding touch / that I may love you as always you have deserved, whilst you pick the dead cartilage from between my ribs ? This longing is infinite / this longing is confined to the spaces between points: in the small pockets of void where no unholy inheritance shackles them. AND IN THIS WAY, MOTHER AND SON ( MOTHER AND HERSELF ) CAN PRETEND / can entertain such thoughts as I miss you and I want- 

BUT THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS WANT. THERE IS THE BECK AND CALL OF MASTER-KING AND THE DILLIGENCE OF HIS FAITHFUL SLAVE. THERE IS PROGENY AND THERE IS LIGHT; THERE IS ELDIA ETERNAL, LONG MAY SHE REIGN. 

But still - and stillness, always - Mother Ymir is kind / far kinder than she knows, kinder than she is ever allowed to be. She works tirelessly, fingers buried deep into the meat of the Earth, sculpting mountains of ( destroy / obliterate / conquer ) and great smooth plains of ( protect / defend / support ). She gives shape to thought and purpose to action, with nurturing care and acts of divine patience - AND OH, GOD, WHAT A HOLLOW GRIEF IT MUST BE: TO SEE YOUR CHILDREN RETURNED BACK TO YOU IN SHAMBLES / IN DISGRACE. Then: how could you love me, mother mine ? How could you tolerate the depraved horror of this vessel ? How could you love these too-heavy limbs, these monstrous acts ? I have done nothing but exist / and then not. IN ANOTHER WORLD: “Why does he have to become someone great ? Isn’t it enough that he was born into this world ?“ IN ANOTHER TWO THOUSAND YEARS: ENOUGH. ENOUGH. I’M PUTTING AN END TO THIS.

It’s far more than he / she / it / they ( ? ) deserve. Oh, on and on !! This sharp ache, this absence / abscess: the way those linen bedsheets wrestle with the air, trapping nothing, folding into themselves the shape Mother, chasing buffets of wind echoing with her laughter. THE PAST: a young girl stumbles blindly into the hollow of a great dead tree and drowns in its roots, dying alone and unwanted. THE PRESENT: a man takes a blade to his arm and thinks only of the village at his back with its people imprisoned, his heart beating a steady mantra of safety / freedom / choice. THE FUTURE: a young woman’s face creases with worry as she untangles yet another knot in a long skein of dark red wool; she can’t help but think she’s making a fool of herself for wanting to apologize to a wild animal that knows not the difference between terror and wonder. ALWAYS THE LOVE, BLINDED BY HATE. ALWAYS THE HATE, BLINDED BY LOVE. Don’t you see how cute he is already ? For me, it’s enough to be able to watch him grow up. Even if he goes far away- even if, one day, I’m unable to ever see him again ...

If only one would will it to be so !! What more does a mother want for their child, than to see them free and happy ? And what more does a child want for their mother, than to see them lifted from the rubble, alive and unhurt and always holy, in their eyes / unbreakable, unyielding ? In me I carry you, and in my heart you rest, your head bowed, your soul at peace. Mother, why can’t you understand ? Mother, why can’t you put down your work - spare me the sewing of veins in this patchwork quilt of a body - and lie down beside me, so that we may watch the stars ? I MISS YOU. I MISS YOU SO MUCH. I FEAR I WILL CRUMBLE UNDER THE WEIGHT OF THIS LONELINESS. I FEAR I WILL FORGET TO COME BACK TO YOU / I FEAR I WILL LEAVE YOU BEHIND AND NEVER FIND YOU AGAIN. Mother, come with me !! Mother, I don’t want to survive / if a life without you in it is worth anything at all, then it is free to forfeit: you are priceless, you are irreplaceable. I cannot un-exist as I do without your guiding hand clasped gently around my pulsating heart / you cannot love me as I have loved you since before forever. Let me give you this much - let me prove I can take care of you, just this once ...

THERE IS NOTHING. THERE IS THIS: A FRACTURED SOUL IS REJOINED IN STITCHES, IN INCREMENTS, IN THE SLOW CRAWL OF YEARS BEING BLED DRY BY A SHADELESS TREE. HER LIPS AT YOUR TEMPLE: HER LULLABIES A CALL TO ACTION. YOU CAN TASTE HER VOICE LIKE SO MUCH MUD CLOYING AT THE BACK OF YOUR THROAT. YOU CAN SWALLOW AROUND THE DECADES AND STILL NOT COME ANY CLOSER TO CHOKING DOWN YOUR PRIDE. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU, AND I MISS YOU, AND I WANT TO COME HOME TO YOUR WARM ARMS AROUND MY SHOULDERS ONCE MORE-

Mother works in silence. She works in darkness / her eyelids sealed shut, her gaze downcast. ( Can you not even bear the sight of me ? Are you so disgusted ? Am I everything that reminds you of what you cannot be ? ) He / it / she / it / they / it wants nothing more than to console her in these uneven bouts of stillness - but it has no will of its own ( not yet ) and has no thought to spare for its right to exist at the expense of everything else ( not now ). So they must content themselves with nothing, because there is nothing: THERE IS THE BEGINNING, AND THE END, AND THE BEGINNING AGAIN. Even so ... the moment is over before it has even begun. No time or space left for words or want. There is only a grin / too many teeth / a cheshire smile pulled taut at the corners, the barest flicker of hope / a child grasping at his mother’s skirts while she dotes and beams with naked fondness. One day, I’ll take you far away from here. We’ll go on a big adventure, you and me - we’ll leave this place and never come back. Just wait- just a little while longer, Mom. I’ll come back for you. We’ll be sunkissed and sweet and you will get to pick fresh apples from the old tree in our backyard, and you’ll be happy: YOU’LL BE FREE.

SO THIS IS HOW THE WORLD ENDS: a bang / a whimper / a child’s scream / for Thine is the Kingdom. He is oddly at peace - that is to say, he knows there is no redemption from this, no going back. There is only the next step, the next mile, the next devastation ( AND OH, LIFE IS LITTLE ELSE / BUT A SLOW CRAWL TOWARDS DEATH ). He can feel his ribs skittering over the lands, clicking ominously along the joints of his spine: like the clock / like the countdown. They catch along cliff-faces, burrow into deep pitfalls - it’s like walking on needles. He keeps his head bowed, eyes averted; his head feels stuffed to the brim with straw, and he fears the fire he kicks up in his wake will spark soon / clamber upwards like so many reaching hands / and he’ll be burned alive, at the stake. It’s too much to confront it - the vertigo will kill him, he knows. All is as wind shuffling through dry grass ( THIS IS SCORCHED EARTH / THIS IS PURIFICATION / THIS IS JUSTICE, THE CHEEK TURNED- ); no whisper can reach him here.

There’s nothing left to feel, he understands. He’s cried out all his tears: he’s been wrung out, trussed up- sheets billowing in the afternoon breeze. He’s been emptied out. There’s only bone left, and hollow bones at that- he doesn’t have anything left to give, doesn’t know what else he’d offer up even if it were asked of him. CLICK-CLICK-CLICK. Is his life even worth anything, anymore ? He doesn’t imagine it would amount to much, not after ... ( I NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN BORN. ALL OF THOSE PEOPLE THAT DIED FOR MY SAKE / I CAN’T ATONE FOR ANY OF THEM. ) What’s one head weighed against a thousand ? A million ? His may be heavy, but it’s not pitch black: he’s not the black hole, consuming everything in his way / despite what he may pretend. He swallows countries whole but they slip right back out, down his skeletal gullet / chewed up but not digested. He’s spent his entire life going hungry - he can’t make his jaw work anymore. His mouth is all slack / all loose tendon. CLICK-CLICK.

( And isn’t that such a bad joke ? Too many teeth broken / too much effort exerted biting down on brick. It’s like he’s been waiting for centuries, this excuse - an opportunity to unwind his tense muscles / to unshoulder Atlas’ burden / like he had any right to pick it up in the first place. NOT THAT FINAL MEETING IN THE TWILIGHT KINGDOM - he hates to admit it. That he was too weak, too immature. That he had deceived everybody into thinking he was someone special / the axis on which the world spun. It was easier to leave it all unacknowledged, to claim this power as his own / as it was always intended. The pursuit of strength is all involuntary, a young boy waxing poetic about how he’ll be the one to save everyone- God, he’s such a fucking idiot. He still doesn’t think he’d be able to lift that wooden beam, not even like this / not not / not ever: MOM, MOM- I’LL TURN THE CORNER- OUR HOUSE WILL STILL BE THERE- LIKE IT ALWAYS IS- )

Maybe it can be forgiven - not he, not I, but her - in some small measure, for whatever words he can spit out. You must have been waiting for someone all this time- If anyone deserves to take the blame, then he will do what he has always done, and double-down. THE BLOODFALL STICKS TO HIS EYELASHES / SEALS HIS SIGHT SHUT. The blade stuck into his forehead, the unnatural expectation- YOU NEED TO KILL ME. I CAN’T DO THIS- I CAN’T CONTINUE TO LIVE LIKE THIS ANYMORE. As if he’d lift a finger to defend himself. He is the open-ended nerve, the spinal cord severed: the man who will destroy the world. She, Ymir, blood-of-my-blood, is innocent: just another victim in his long array. Her body may tip the scales out of his favor. He might not be able to bring himself to grief, but this he can fix, can undo - SHUT UP !! DON’T TALK LIKE THAT !! I’LL GET YOU OUT OF THERE, MOM, AND WE’LL LEAVE TOGETHER, THE THREE OF US !!

“... It’s alright,” he soothes, lips pressed to the crown of her temple. He sucks in another shuddering lungful of dust and leans into her back, his arms tightening around her shoulders. “There was no other choice ... This was the only way. We ... never had enough time. It was always going to end like this. This fate ... was decided before we were born. All we can do now ... is let it happen. I’m sorry. I wish ... I wish I’d done better. But I did the best I could.”

〢▓█  ✕   𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄'𝐒𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐓   ▷▷     to the autumn siege

                            inside himself  /  presence ever forming ;     eyes alone  /  enough to unearth him.   Touch  /  enough to raze him bare.   That hollowness  /  that night-sky reflection  /  filled with his presence.   She’s warm where she meets him,  and he feels the slightest quiver run through the meet of their skin.   GENTLE  /   she aerates it woodlike.   Oaks  &  elm  &  apple cider.   PRICKLING  /   her hearthy warmth is something of a warning.   Her ivy.   His itch.   Suffocating addiction.   His hand responds in a stutter,  face fleeing from her.   BARE  /    he’s nothing but naked under that gaze of hers.

RAPTURE / RAGE / REUNITED: all at long last, a Mother made manifest, a nine-sided soul rejoined in split seams. The phantom pain is still fresh, but it aches a little less now / bleeds less grief / hurts less honestly. He ( son, savior ) flexes their new bond in awe, delighting in the numb rush of static that skitters down the length of his spine. It is little more than a shimmering gossamer thread ( A HALF-HEALED TENDON / AN ARROW WOUND SCARRED OVER / A REMINDER BUT NOT A PUNISHMENT )  - but. Still. To be able to slip into that dreamless sleep at will, it comes at a great relief and no cost. To be able to walk the great rolling dunes of Elsewhere unshackled, to gaze up into that starless sky and recognize a certain kinship that comes with knowing ( NOT ALONE / NEVER AGAIN ) ... Well, is it so wrong for a child to want to rush home as soon as they are able, content in the reassurance that Love waits for them with open arms / her roots spread wide ?

He traverses the winding Pathways of time, spreading himself thin over the centuries and nestling himself comfortably into the hollow of a great sturdy tree / tucked under his Mother’s chin / hands bunched up in the folds of her skirts. He hums, bemused, as he glances over at her work: What are you doing ? 

        ˜”*°•. ☽  A LOST NSFW HEADCANON MEME   

12. Would you consider your muse to be kinky?:

I BELIEVE she’s somewhere in the middle! She’s a person that would try just about anything once, especially if it was something a partner was into. She’s down for plain old romantic vanilla fucking bc she’s touch and affection starved, but if you wanna amp it up at any given moment? She’ll take it in stride easily. Because of the sheer amount of physical pain she’s endured throughout her life, its hard to really phase her with things like that? ( Which is a reason she occasionally uses sex as an instrument of self-harm, it makes her feel real and awake and present when she’s hurting )  

13. What’s their favorite sex position(s)?: