#munewrites

  His voice is more a prayer if anything, a hymn that rises just barely above a whisper, his forehead touching the indent between his pressed hand with closed eyes and trembling lips. It’s a sea foam that bursts and swells, soothing even though it sounds a little too sweet and reverent. Amelie leans against the wooden column, basking in the warmth of the nearby hearth as she listens to him even. 

    When he finishes and opens his eyes, she claps languidly, slowly, a grin creasing her lips, causing him to stiffen, head turning to meet her with raised brows. He looks unamused, but doesn’t seem offended, though she hardly thinks there are many things that test his patience. “Thank you for the performance, Brother.“     He sighs at this, as though weary, but the smile he wears indicates he is anything but. “Happy to help you, dear friend,” he replies and she laughs while she pushes herself away from the column.          “But, really,” she assures and he tilts his head down in acknowledgement before she turns on her heel. She’s already forgotten half the verses he’s sang, even half his voice, but the image it brings, the quiet ocean and nostalgic rain, she remembers. 

      Gold. Yes, yes, she remembers him to be gold - or was it amber? (No, too dull, not fitting enough. Something precious, something that glitters and demands royalty) - no, but he’s never demanded nobility. God’s blood - yes, he bleeds ichor. She’s never tasted ichor, which is a pity, because now she’ll never know how Akatosh feels on her lips (maybe she should’ve pinned him down). He’s all stone and ivory now, can’t be helped. She’s always liked seeing him ooze - did she really? (Yes, too much; sometimes she cried) - and oh, the delight when he glimmered in it. He dripped like nectarine (no, ambrosia), pavements of bronze running down the length of her stomach (oh, she remembers the way he kissed her into something worthy) as he steeped her body in Midas’ touch.

        She would’ve thought he were rougher, but no, he had always been a little more gentle, a little more understanding - and what good does it do? Better to have a little fun and take her there.

      His eyes used to stare at her with such wonder - as blue as the plants she used to pick (What was it? Bugloe? Bugalos? It had a snake in the name, she recalls) ( But why concern yourself with such mortal things? ) -  skimming over her carefully and tenderly. They reminded her of the waves that crashed upon Anvil’s docks - ah, seawater and vomit, and dead fish, and the people lingering upon wet cobblestones, a scenery so commonplace atop the wretched mansion’s balcony (nostalgic; odd).  But his gaze was never dead, they were always so, so alive. Sometimes they told her secrets, they told her fears and in some memory from her past days, she comforted him with truths, lies he believed. He should’ve worshipped madness instead of debauchery, maybe then she could’ve saved him.

      His skin had been the colour of ironwood shells, smooth and withholding unnaturally taut muscles. I was not always a priest. No, he wasn’t, she knows. Sanguine had never learnt to treat his followers kindly (or maybe he did and the ex-priest was just foolish). Underneath all he was, she knows he’s capable, stronger than he lets on. His ribs must make a pretty cage for his heart, one crafted out of steel, and yet she finds herself remembering that he’s never been too harsh. He’d alway tried his best to treat her like porcelain (and she riveted in it once; now she doesn’t think she’d like the same gentleness).

      He wore the night sky upon his back, but these ones never changed. Always marked with the same scars, the same freckles and she’d once wondered where they led. Now she does not. These ones did not glow, instead serving their purpose to remind her that despite his immortal lineage, he was still as human as her.

      There’s more, oh, there’s always more. The unfinished picture hangs behind her irises as she strains to piece him together. He’s always been too perfect (nothing close to a prince, though). She tries to catch his scent, but lavenders are a newfound hatred and the sweet taste of promises that he tried to keep are more ashen than anything she’s ever eaten.

      Disgusting. Is that all she can grasp? (You disappoint me. Why focus on such intangible things? A doll need only be physical).

      What else to remember? What else, what else? A man is incomplete with just his eyes and his blood, and his skin and bones. (His hair, his thoughts and lips. Mould him, mould him, mould him). Do not scream, little cur, I will.

      She takes a moment to compose herself with a breath because the voices are a little louder today. Whose voice it belongs to is unknown to her, it’s just there. You’ll be hearing more once you’ve completely turned, it cackles (ah, a female this time).

      She tries to dig a little deeper into the recesses of her mind, then, and she’s greeted by the faint smile on his lips, the silken threads of his hair running through her fingertips while he calls her name before he leans in to kiss her (the feeling is oddly fresh, as though new, untarnished). Her shoulder scorches, her hand immediately going to the injury as though to staunch an open wound and she’s hissing his name under her breath because his words have sunk into her flesh (all the confessions, the soft praises of reverence).

      It hurts, it hurts, no more, one of them moans.       Forget the boy, he’s of no concern, another growls.       Make it stop, it stings, the third voice beseeches.

      Amongst the clamour, she asks herself which of them belongs to her, because she knows she would disagree because she must’ve loved him, maybe held him close. She knows she brought him to bed, made pleasure in the dead of night, but no disagreement comes and she finds herself wanting this wretched feeling (painful things, painful words, painful memories) gone.

      So she lets go of his writhing memento (good riddance), lets the fondness go up in flames so she sees him as an Emperor, a Septim, some saviour who ended like all others, not as some man she kept to her heart (and look, his name’s all gone. What was it again? Maron, Marin? Savarins? No, that’s a cake).

      Savarins? Brilliant.

      Don’t you feel lighter? Yes, she does, although, for some reason, she finds that the pain on her shoulder is sharper than ever. Don’t mind that, that’s not important. Yes, that’s not important, this pain is incompetent and dull, and it’ll fade as her dreams do.

      A hoarse, brittle laughter escapes his (her?) lips, and she can feel it cracking around its edges. He can sense it creeping up his skin, making her into something different, changing her mind. But she welcomes the change, she welcomes this new, twisted deliriousness, the halls echoing with each growing cackle, snarl and snap.

      His visage turns to tatters in her mind. She recalls his name for a moment (Martin, they called him), his golden scales rippling across the dark. (Hardly fair to any of the previous Septims. They never got to rule as a dragon). Then it just dwindles away as the waves overtake him.