#rosespun

@rosespun​​ asked from growling suggestion: ‘ the world is spinning far too fast for me to stay on it. ’

a   makeshift   ally:   a   perversion,   really,   of   a   past   he   had   once   hoped   to   remold   into   the   future,   watered   down   to   dark   tresses   and   the   haunt   of   pale   gold.   it   was   a   delicate   dance,   hands   clasped   to   hands   but   barely   touching,   toes   darting   over   toes,   and   even   though   emet-selch   did   not   present   himself   as   an   enemy,   he   was   no   friend,   either.

cloaked   in   the   underworld   as   she   was,   brightly   shining   in   something   repulsively   familiar,   they   were   both   no   longer   close   enough   for   such   admittances.   so   --     ❛   then   why   not   leave   it,   hero?   ❜     the   words   are   a   snap,   divisive,   emet-selch’s   lips   curved   like   the   sharp   side   of   a   dagger.   he   mocks   the   olive   branch   he   himself   had   extended,   malformed   with   curling,   dying   leaves.     ❛   but   you   can’t,   can   you?      ❜

emet-selch’s   voice   was   high   with   mocking,   a   poisonous   undercurrent   of   resignation   in   a   hero   that   cannot   help   but   be   a   hero,   her   scions   like   baby   birds   hoping   to   be   fed   protection.     ❛      i’m   sure   you   will   cling   to   it   just   fine.   after   all,   you   have   to   foil   my   plans,   hm?      ❜

Winter  melting  away  into  spring ,   warmth  settling  upon  wintry  features  with  a  faint  glimmer  in  her  gaze  as  she  looks  aside  towards  the  other  woman  fondly .   For  a  brief  moment ,   she  feels  the  urge  to  reach  out  &  brush  her  fingers  against  Umiko’s ,   but  a  WHISPER  echoes  in  the  back  of  her  mind ,   WARNING  HER  against  doing  as  such .   Instead ,   she  settles  for  a  quiet  laugh ,   short  &  sweet  in  its  nature .                          ❝    Saving  the  world  once  again . . . .   feels  like  a  Windsday ,   doesn’t  it ?    ❞

❛  they are returning anew.  ❜  the petals curl, they catch against leather, the metal gauntlet as his palm curves. harsh, harsh against that which clings onto its tenderness.    ❛  mayhap they would return to full bluster, given time.  though a pitiful restoration.  ❜   the stem snags.  breaks.  he turns in his vessel, o’ heroic visage.    turns to umiko, dead flower proffered in dead hand. 

                             ❛ and time has already been wasted so far, servant of the mothercrystal. ❜ 

The night is quiet, save for the rustling of trees and the breeze carrying along the distant call of a nightingale. That breeze blows in through the wide, open windows. A few papers on the desk threaten to fly off, over the edge and onto the floor. It brushes through Umiko’s hair, dark strands fanning across her face, but Ardbert himself can’t feel it. It passes through him just as everything else does. He may as well be a part of the breeze himself.

Even with the night returned, he can only enjoy it so much.

But he did so miss looking at the stars. At least he could do that, if nothing else.

She sits across the room from him, poised and always so, so lovely. Looking at her reminds him that despite their similarities, the differences remain stark. Her gaze is fixated on him at first, before it trails towards the open window to observe the stars instead. Ardbert follows her gaze.

Quiet. So quiet. But the tension is palpable. The Warrior’s work is far from finished. So much to do in a world not her own, and what is Ardbert meant to do? Simply watch, unseen and unheard by all but her? It agonizes him, because he wants to do more, feels like he has to do more.

In the end, he’s only a ghost cursed to haunt these lands for eternity, or until he learns the purpose for why he was spared.

Umiko speaks and Ardbert’s attention is yanked fully back towards her. She always commands the attention of others with hardly any effort, and he still finds himself inexplicably drawn to her regardless. If she speaks, he will listen. He will always listen.

Ardbert pauses, worries the inside of his cheek with his teeth. He thinks not of the sin eaters, nor Vauthry; he thinks not of Emet-Selch, nor the other Ascians; he thinks not of Cyella, whereever she may be now. No, he thinks of himself.

Worldbreaker. Floodbringer. Have you not done enough damage? Best to leave the world-saving to the professionals. You’re no hero, you were never supposed to be.