#kryetar

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 , for impossible creatures as they are, is an ephemeral one. dissolving and leaving behind unscarred flesh in a matter of instants, or instead festering into a death that’s just as ephemeral, forgotten in minutes, irrelevant. but it is a weak part of her heart that still aches, when peering into death’s eyes — even minutes, mere minutes with her companions giving in before her, are enough for something cold and sick to crawl over her, a nervous feeling, a cave wrapping itself around her. as ira stumbles along the battle field and finally meets fides over the threshold between the battle and the nothing, the vestal can feel that cold whisper tickle the back of her neck once more: he is bleeding profusely from his left side, growing paler each second, and fides feels herself harden and coil around the desperate, still unknown freezing coldness of fear. 

“ oh, ira — ”, reaching to meet him, support his weight as he begins giving into gravity, she tells herself no bandages will be useful with this amount of blood, and it would be best to just sit and wait for the inevitable new fresh breath after the blow. but the sight of him, washed out of his colors, is enough to send her heart into a frenzy, a rabid beating jumping out in her chest, and she wonders how many centuries it’ll take for her to be accepting of this, of the morbid relationship between them and the end of all, the end of things, the end of life. “ breathe. it will be alright ”. her own breath is shaky: as she lays her palm against the side of ira’s face, trembling, she is at last forced to look away. standing up, two steps away, fides turns: he will be back, they all will be. but the space in between is as frightening to her as the first darkness in the evening. speaking of darknesses unknown, or maybe far too familiar: she’s seen the ugly face of it, the centuries have not made it sweeter. all she can hope is that is journey to there and back will be easier — and return him whole, and brave, and fierce as the day she first met him, on a battlefield much like this, bloodsoaked then like he is now. it takes two minutes to hear his lament again, and fides smiles: of course, not even death is a worthy opponent for ira of wessex.

𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 —— whatever callousness to the world of celebrity she’s developed seems to never have touched ira, who in fact seems to thrive off the flash lights in a way she can only describe as godly. like tinkerbell, perhaps, he too lives off of it: does he ask the question that haunts her too, are you real when the lights go off, when the spotlight’s gone ? she’s been on the verge of asking him that one too many times: but it’s a question wrapped in thorns, and would not bring anything if not unpleasant epiphanies. and friday night’s still a sacred place — in between her and him lies the chaos of a weekend opening up before them, who is she to not celebrate it ? reasons for celebration are hard to come by, these days — the one object of her devotion is back in sweden for the next two weeks, and so she’d rather just give in to her old paramour: it comes in bottles, or funny shaped glasses with umbrellas on top. and odd parties with people whose names she doesn’t remember, but it doesn’t much matter: ira’s on the other side of the bar, and seems to fill it all with his presence.

when he winks at her, from the far off corner, he does so in a cheeky, cartoonish way that makes him look like some two-dimensional casanova, and fred can’t help but laugh: whole heartedly, giving in to the light booze-induced buzz. there’s still times she gets sad, and frightened, and the world feels less like solid ground but a mudslide just waiting to give in to gravity — it’s easy to forget all about it, in times like these. “ you idiot, they’re gonna think you were hitting on me ”, fred laughs again when finally making her way through the crowd, out on the balcony, beer in hand and her head lightly shaking. “ after they stop thinking you’ve been hitting on everyone else, of course ”: time for her to be dramatic, give off a sigh that’s dripping resignation. “ god, you’re such a diva. ”

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄, 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄, 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒. freddie stares, half in shock, because frankly, how dare he ? he who’d waste a perfectly good friday night getting in his own head in thirty different ways, in some party trick where he manages to make himself anxious about everything and nothing all at once. he who once blabbed for thirty-two minutes straight about how she had to give bon jovi a second chance, really, not all songs are like always freds, you’d really like him i feel ! he —— quoque tu, ira. such betrayal is met with her mouth agape, and the very greatest of dramatic reactions, her deadly silence. she ignores the tv screen now, ignores the popsicle in her hand, long enough for it to begin trickling over her thumb. her world, effectively, stops: all in the face of outrage.

“ fuck you ”, she spells each sillable, punctuating the last one with a punch, as hard as she can pack, straight against his bicep, won’t amount to much, she suspects, but the next best alternative is smashing her strabwerry popsicle inside that hedgehog-like formation that sits over his head, so he’s gonna have to make do. “ oh my god, you’re such a prick. you’re like sev. no, actually, you’re worse than sev. he’s not a backstabbing little bitch ” it’s all theatrics. for the most part, at least. because the red that colors her face is not entirely fabricated, no —— a part of her is embarrassed, and bites the inside of her cheek now thinking perhaps she shouldn’t be talking this much about someone she claims to not give a crap about, him and his gold-star champion-of-everything picture perfect super girlfriend. she was going off again, wasn’t she ? miles and miles of ranting over how much she doesn’t understand, but how much she does, really, just refuses to admit it out loud when she’s based her entire personality on being inscrutable and weird. thing is, even ira must be done with that. frankly, she is, too —— so fucking done with herself, with the doubt, with the intricacies of dissatisfaction. it pisses her off, really, she gets it — and it just adds to the reasons for pouting: fred abandons what’s left of her popsicle in her now empty glass, then retreats to her corner of the couch, arms crossed, sinking into herself like a deflated balloon, and makes it a point to squeeze herself as tight as possible against the armrest, away from him.

it lasts about three seconds, maybe four —— she reaches for the popsicle again, and just as she’s returning to her corner, fred kicks the side of ira’s leg and huffs out.

“ you’re an ass. ”

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄, 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒, 𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘. each time the words slightly change, and new attempts are made — once or twice she puts a hand over his forearms, and searches for his eyes, for that spark of clarity they share sometimes. it never happens: the end result never changes. every iteration ends with anger over his face, a seething contempt that says not only that he is furious, but disappointed, even: outraged at her foolishness, most of all, and she, for all her wisdom and the thick skin the years have given her, could not bear that. there are no more attempts, now: when this has stopped being a fantasy but is now a real conversation she tries so desperately to wiggle out of, so uncomfortable under his stare. she remembers north america, less than a century before, the sharp-edged stare of a reverend cutting into her to find traces of a vile, evil nature. it’s a vile thing, to think of him when thinking of ira —— but does he know how easy it is for him to step down from his self-appointed role of holy warrior, and into the cloak of an inquisitor ? would she not have the right to the same barely reeled in outrage he would surely reserve her if he knew the whole truth ? she could make her words a sword, too: perhaps i have been naive, yes, but you have been cruel: and how holy does it make you, the way a part of you, i know, is rejoicing at this defeat ? 

her wounds will scar in a second, her skin will return pristine, but she can’t bear the sight of them anyway. perhaps his outrage is mostly her own: the red gashes over her arms remind her of a fall, the freezing cold grasp of death that still feels too much like the cold hand of ilias to pretend she could not remember. grief and heartache are mixed in some acidic mixture bubbling up inside of her: and she fears when she’ll look up towards ira he will see it, and he will know. so her eyes are kept away from him, fixated over her bandages, the hurry making her movements clumsier than usual. she needs to be away from here: away from them. “ let this go, ira. i am fine. ” when she gathers up her bottles and gauzes it’s to leave, but she stops halfway towards the door, a sharp breath drawn out of her lips, and fides brings a hand to her head, dizzy, spinning. she does not really know what to do. where to go from here — where this endless quest of her has brought her, there is nothing for her now. and if she turned around she would see ira and the house he shares with severin, the life they have made for each other, the warmth of their shared hearth, so that is one more reason why she can’t turn around: can’t see the thing she longs for the most, the warmth. how it keeps slipping out of her fingers, how an endless winter seems to be all she’ll ever have to her name.

“ i have to go. i have … ”. urgent business to attend to ? strange, it seems everything has vanished, every element constituting her being. all she is and all she does falls like bricks of a stormed castle to her feet — who is she, if not hopeles hope ? who is she, when the object of her most illogical belief is a mountain she keeps crashing against, over and over, ‘til all she is bones, all she is is bleeding ? she could surrender and say he was right: right never to trust their northern brother, and right to oppose her beliefs. she could, and ask for shelter from the inner storm, hide in their house long enough for even the invisible wounds to scar. yet she won’t. it’s not her shame that’s burning, it’s something else, and it won’t allow a surrender, only ever a step forward. “ i have to go, ira. ”, the vestal sighs. “ i have stayed here long enough. ”

ira would know. he has that spark in his eyes, too —— the last gleam of a flame refusing to give out, the canary that won’t stop singing. she looks for him in moments of quiet stillness and tells herself as long as he’s around she can hook her fingers to what good remains in her and tell herself she’s not gone yet. the rest of her is rotting, it falls off of her like chunks of decomposing skin —— there is her spirit, lying next to her sympathy, in a pool of her love. the blood red part of it, at least. the rest is left in her to fester like a wound, the rest has turned to fear, the rest has turned to rage: she clings to ira because she thinks he understands that, too. how a beautiful thing can turn venomous. ripe fruit festering into mold.

“ you got another one of those ? ”, smoking is a good excuse out of the make-believe factory where victor cullen’s leading most of his operations. the air outside doesn’t feel any lighter, and the smell of things rotting persists, but at least she can sit by his side, on the step of a back door, and pretend the rat-infested alley is a shelter of their choosing and not a jail. freddie lets out a sigh —— her voice is coarse, it’s tired of speaking, and existing in general has become a burdensome endeavor. she slouches as she sits, arms crossed over her knees. “ i’ve been trying to quit… ”. yeah, but what’s the point ? it’s just a quicker death at best, and either way, this is already hades.

       »   𝐅𝐎𝐑   I͏D͏I͏O͏T͏J͏ÄV͏E͏L͏   𝐈𝐑𝐀   (  @kryetar​  )  , 

                      𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐔𝐌 ,     and he was spending it completely alone.  which wasn’t as sad as it sounds.   he had nothing but his cabin on st. matthew island  ,  alaska  ——  his home was marooned in the bering sea halfway to siberia and it took twenty four hours by ship to get to the nearest bar.   it’d take over five days to get to a decent bar  ,  and nobody would have the energy to find him.   it was finally the year 2000 and ilias  ,  a man who was once a viking and a pirate  —— was knocking down the last of his bottled beers while cozied up to the fire.  he held a book in one hand and he had his hand around an alaskan malamute named   miska  ,  little bear.  

                      so , needless to say that when he heard a loud knock on his door  ,  ilias was surprised.  miska’s bark echoed against his wooden walls and she quickly moved away from him ,  welcoming the cold to the empty space that she left behind.  

                      ilias passed his shotgun on the way to the front door without bothering to have it handy and peeked out of the window by the front door.    “  hah  ,  look at that.  ”  a familiar face that he would have preferred to never see again  ,  for that face only reminded him of everything he preferred to live immortally without.   a man that represented everlasting willpower and content  ,  ilias couldn’t even pair ira’s name with  ‘ luck ’   or  ‘ good fortune ’.  and yet  ,  he opened the door and let in the whirring winds of an unforgiving alaskan autumn.  without acknowledging the other immortal  ,  ilias shushed miska.    “  sessizlik ,   git ve uyu.  ”

                      he turned his back and kept a finger in between the pages of his book  ,  keeping his spot as he returned to his cozy spot on the floor in front of the fire — his back against a trunk and miska by his side.   “  hot coffee’s on the stove.  ”  ilias spoke as though ira were a regular and not the immortal that he hadn’t seen since exactly 1604.  the man who had once spat his name in vile disgust was this same man who had somehow found ilias and trekked through the harshness of the cold.  ilias resumed to reading and quietly thought to himself. 

𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞, 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐡 —— she just can’t help the part of her that takes offense at ira’s words, almost. it’s a bit comical, the way her eyes turn into a glare that ira is all but ignoring, as if the sudden discovery of him growing into some lanky college-grade beanstalk and her remaining pocket-sized is bringing a sudden epiphany upon his soul. to fred, it only brings a nose scrunch and a sharp, unamused line where her smile is supposed to be. some days she almost wants to wage a war against biology, hook her hands to his shoulders and bring him down, say: hey, asshole, we were supposed to grow together. but it’s stupid, yeah ? a kindergarten jest. perhaps that is the secret —— it’s a comforting argument to cling to, when the world closes in on them every second and soon enough they’ll have bigger, far more menacing monsters to face. height is a funny topic. height is a midday experiment in manifesting a life where banter will be the sacred edge of conflict —— nothing worse ever separating them, because they know. they know how it works: life has a way of shattering what’s precious, and this is their sacred bond. gem-like in its rarity, but its value, unlike a gem’s, incalculable. still the performance requires its lines be rehearsed with unfailing confidence, and when fred withdraws her hand it’s with feigned outrage, something victorian in the way she brings her hand to her chest in defensiveness. “ not my fault you all grew up on chernobyl milk or somethin’... ”. it’s a child’s snotty remark and it’s so ridiculous it makes her laugh before it can be taken any seriously —— but when she huffs there’s still a childish pout on her lips, and though her gaze is soft as always towards ira, she still likes to glare just to get the point across. “ i wanna go back to when the rest of you were the losers and i was the badass ”. arms crossed over her knees, her sigh much too dramatic. “ whatever. at least i still get oxygen, down here. at least i’m not getting any dumber ”.