#peruvie

Another constant that she is aware of, though the notion seems to escape from her other siblings’ mind, is that Mother does not love them. She is despicable, but it is her honey-coated lies and sugar-dipped promises that deceives the more ingenuous bunch, though at this point, Peruere often wonders if the children choose to follow her because out of naivety or dubiety–unable to accept that the family and home given to them is just a mechanism to supply the Tsaritsa more useless fodder. 

Finally, the last constant that Peruere is aware of is that Clervie's touch burns her in a way unlike the cursed flames inside of her do. Clervie’s side is soothing, like what a house with a hearth is supposed to be: a warm flame that coats her like an embrace. She finds that underneath Clervie's eyes, Peruere melts, crumbles, and dissipates because Clervie is the sun that provides her life, and without her, Peruere would be little more than a withering flower. This is the one constant that Peruere would like to be eternal, to forever be burned by Clervie’s rays of light. 

—

Peruere does not remember when Clervie's light was lost–what event caused the final embers of her will to fade away. She does not remember when the sullen, hopeless expression worked its way into her once softened face. She does not remember when her eyes, once brimming with determination, lost their emerald glint that Perueure always found herself enamored with. She does not remember when her sun was extinguished, leaving the moon to wander the night sky, blind and alone. 

Perhaps if the moon had reached for the sun once, the moon could share what little light she had. Maybe if she did, the sun wouldn't be snuffed out. 

—

Clervie's weight is heavy against her as she holds Clervie, futilely trying to grab onto the life that is bleeding out of her and onto her hands and the ground. The pitter-patter that Peruere had often slept to was fading underneath her cursed fingertips. The verdant eyes are replaced with a faux, dimmer gemstone. Peruere is cursed, perhaps she has no right to ask for the Archons’ regard, but she asks for them just this once, pleading with the Archons to save her dying sun. When Clervie's warmth is finally gone, dissolving into nothingness, she knows that the Archons have ignored her calls and that she has been abandoned. The moon is dyed red from the sun's blood. 

The previously dormant blood flames roars to life, brewing within Peruere and its fiery inferno incinerating the crimson moon. Flames enrapture Peruere as she cradles her friend, unsaid words charred the moment they escape her tongue, whispered confessions fleeing like wispy embers. 

(Why must it end this way? Why did you leave me? How could you do this to me? What of the aurora?) 

Peruere burns and burns until her blood fire consumes her and she reaches nullity. 

II.

When Peruere opens her eyes again, she is not met with the expected incinerated landscape around her. Instead, her knees rests on the familiar texture of chartreuse grass, and she sits before a vaguely familiar tree and a dugout hole. A small wooden box is held in her smaller-than-she-recalled hands, her palms are gritty with small clumps of dirt stuck to it. 

Her eyes flit down to the black sweater and short set she dons, a previous attire she was fond of until she outgrew it at eight years old. Most notably, however, her curse had only reached the knuckles of her chubby, baby hands. 

This must be a memory of the past. A flashback to one of the most significant moments in her life, she knows how this scene will play out. Comes the burial of Bambi is Crucabena's daughter, Clervie, who befriends her through the offering of cake. And since then, their friendship has blossomed. 

As if on cue, a soft crunch sounds from behind her, and Peruere dares whip around. 

Long pink-red hair and emerald abysses suffocates Peruere in a chokehold; she is breathless and the oxygen from her lungs are pried out.

Clervie remains exactly as she remembered, with her frilled white dress matching with her white headband, and that stubborn strand of hair refusing to stick down. Holding that tray of the two petite cakes. 

But for a memory, Clervie seems far too vivid, far too realistic–like she is alive. The six-year old child stands before her, the sunlight making her hair shine and her skin glow. Her facial features do not lag, shifting as smoothly as her locks flowing in the wind. Even her soft chewing and gulp is audible.

Peruere misses Clerive's question altogether, too distracted by the internal battle of deciphering reality. 

Clervie is not alive, no matter how it may look. She cannot be deceived by the lifelike image, because Peruere knows that Clervie died by her hands, her blood stained on Peruere's hand, and Peruere is still alone, abandoned by her sun. Peruere still hears Clervie's final words, only whispering into her ear a few minutes prior.

(“You will be a great king. I'm sorry. Thank you.” It still rings through my ears. How can there be a king without a queen? How can you leave me?) 

Clervie is dead. She is dead, forever gone, burned to ashes by her blood flames–

“Um… hello? You don't have to say yes if you don't want the cake.” 

Everything comes to a stop. 

That is not what Clervie says. Clervie is supposed to step back, flustered by Peruere's comment of how spiders cannot eat cake. 

This is not the memory that Peruere remembers. 

—

Peruere waits for the dream to end, for her to be plunged back into a reality where her much older self cradles her dying sun, waiting for dawn that will never come. Except, each morning, the sun rises, and Clervie still remains by her side after days have gone by. The actions that she takes in this ‘dream’ affect the dream's events; perhaps this is her new reality, and not just a dream. Still, Peruere is cautious. What did that make her previous lifetime? A nightmare, or a vision for the future?

Perhaps the Archons have answered her prayers, their way of saving Clervie. 

Peruere would be foolish not to use this opportunity. Even if this is a dream waiting to end, she will make the most of her time with this Clervie. 

Clervie is startled, but welcomes Peruere's unseeming attachment. Peruere finds herself overly physically affectionate, but it is to make up for lost time in her past lifetime. Often, the two can be seen, hand in hand, fingers entangled as if they could never be separated, like two halves of a celestial body fitting together perfectly. The moon follows the sun's every step, forever in the sun's shadow. 

—

Reading novels has always been Clervie's favorite pastime. Although past Peruere preferred searching for any stray insects in some decrepit corner of the House, this Peruere wants to savor as much of her potentially limited time with Clervie–that involves reading the vast variety of books besides the pink-haired girl, often admiring the stars in Clervie's eyes whenever she learns discovers something. Here, when her sun shines so bright, it's almost blinding. 

She learns more of the aurora that Clervie dreams of. She learns of the nation's creatures, each one appearing stranger than the last. She learns of the stars and constellations. Each new thing that they discover about the world, Clervie promises that they'll see them together. 

It is in these moments, that, regrettably, Clervie sounds the most like Mother–spilling promises that will never be fulfilled far too effortlessly than what Peruere likes. Peruere does not tell her what fate had in mind for them, that almost a decade later Clervie would rather choose freedom over remaining by Peruere's side.

Lately, her primary fascination has been whimsical romance novels, of brave knights saving the trapped princess, of cursed beasts reverting back to men from the power of a single kiss, of two people on opposing sides seeking comfort in one another. Of love. Love, which is often described as the fluttering of stomachs, the blushing of cheeks, the beating of hearts, the meeting of lips. Peruere does not know if Clervie had this interest in this specific genre before; perhaps Peruere wasn't attentive enough then, or this was a new event entirely, somehow catalyzed by the miniscule alterations Peruere created. 

Either way, it leaves Peruere wondering. If there was such a specific label for those certain types of actions, then what could characterize the abnormal warmth that she feels with Clervie? Is this another symptom of love? Peruere hopes not. 

Mother's love is cruel enough; how much crueler would Clervie's love be? 

—

Peruere was wrapping Clervie's bandages when it happens. The two of them are older, now the two of them are nearly sixteen. 

“You should stop arguing with Mother, Clervie… you keep getting hurt,” Peruere notes with a sigh and a shake of her head. 

Clervie dips her head, as if a bit ashamed from the light scolding, before resolutely shaking her head. “I can't do that, Peruere. You know that.” 

Clervie's just as stubborn this time as she was in their last life and just as beautiful–a dawning sun before a rising moon.

Peruere notices the cut on Clervie's bottom lip. She leans in to gain a closer look, a cotton puff in her hand as she approaches nearer until their noses are just a few inches away. Clervie's breath cascades against Peruere's cheeks, its warmth contagious as it spreads to the rest of her body. Peruere’s body ignites, a fire blossoming inside of her chest and an incessant sensation claws at her ribcage. 

“There's a cut on your–” Peruere begins but she's interrupted when Clervie pushes forward, and their mouths slot together clumsily. Clervie tastes like rainbow roses and of freedom. She tastes of a warmth that always coaxes her, of a home that comforts her, of a love that seems plausible. But it is all too brief when Clervie pulls away, a stammering apology tumbling out of her sweet lips.  

Peruere pulls Clervie back towards her, hoping to get more familiar with the taste of the sun–hot and encompassing.

— 

Still, her efforts weren't enough. The outcome of the kingmaking event is just like her last lifetime. She couldn't dissuade Clervie, she couldn't convince Clervie to live, to struggle harder against the chains of fate, to fight against Mother. Again, Clerive didn't listen to her suggestion. Clervie, with her sweet smile and those eyes to which Peruere would always melt under, strolls up to her, and again Peruere's sword impales her. 

(Again, she didn't pick me. She decided that she cared about Mother too much. Why would you pick Mother over her? Why do you keep choosing the one who hurts you the most over the only one who cares for you? Why do you keep leaving me?)

This time, Peruere understands. 

The sun doesn't need the moon–only a moon needs a sun to shine.

Peruere's vision fills with red again, and the blood flames devour her. 

III.