#sil'ahn

It was instinct for Dhruastun to seek out his hand, pulling it up to his face where he pressed those fingers to his lips and closed his eyes. He didn't need to say a thing, and still he heard the song of what was deeper in those veins. The elf exhaled, allowing himself to pull back some of the fences he set up. There were no tears this night, no bruises and no welts to speak of, only scars. They did not bleed, did not sting, but on some nights, nights like this, they did ache. For a moment that was all Dhruastun could manage, taking some comfort in that those fingertips were ones he knew. When he drew a breath his mouth shaped that name, Fenris, against his skin.The apostate opened his eyes, and a small, bitter smile touched his lips. When he mumbled it was much clearer than that night that long time ago.                                             "We are the monsters."

Devotion was a fragile bird with a broken wing, an infant that was squandered from the get go if some form of mending was not wrapped about it to set things in place. Disillusionment and denial set it's bones and let it heal, and Devotion matured into something so terrible and wrought of awe. Devotion was raised from spite and anger, fueled with hostility and shame, and the beast it crafted is a horror and so very loyal. Devotion is something met with unabashed love and animosity all at once. Devotion is a reverent hymn and a vengeful curse, and it was his own doing that shaped it so.It mixed shame and want, the need for belief coupled with horror at what it was his Devotion nested in. Devotion to a Traitor, to the one thing that had caused so much strife and so much pain. Devotion is was the crushing acceptance of for whom his piety was for, it is the lamentation of all that could have been and the whispers of what could come yet. It is a hindrance and his greatest strength, his faith unshakeable in it's course, the resilience of it inspiring, despite the figure it is aimed towards.                              devotion is downcast eyes and a bitter smile                              it's the regret and grief twisted too tightly                              it's contempt and disgrace carefully joined                              and it is unwavering, a fixed beacon                              of belief and conviction and staggering faithDevotion is Dhruastun's monster. It is dreadful and hideous, a creature that takes and takes and will rend all it can within it's claws until it's the shape it prefers above all else. Devotion is in the streaks of red he drags over statues' eyes, in the murmurs before dawn and prior to slumber. It is in the small holy spaces of the tokens he keeps on him, in the breaths between his words and the inside of his eyelids. Devotion is his monster, and he sees to it well, he cares for it. Devotion will come before all else, it will leave any obstacles, any distractions, and any interferences to the side as it time and time again demands all attention fully.

Loneliness is an old friend. It settles down and aches, but it isn't as horrible as it once was.It had been devastating, once. It had smothered faith and belief in one fell swoop. Loneliness spoke of the gods being gone, of truly being alone where once there had been a gem of hope in the belief that prayers had made him feel a bit less alone. Loneliness took no prisoners in it's destruction, and barreled carelessly through it. It had dashed everything once believed in, cracked the foundation and demolished all that had stood there. Loneliness took everything away, and left nothing in it's wake. It consumes all, not with fervor or spite, but with a slow, easing anguish. It's hurt is a subtle one, taking root in the darkness and flowering into a grief that is terrible and beautiful. Loneliness is cold hands and nights with arms wrapped around oneself to mimic the very idea of not being so alone.Loneliness is numbing in it's poison, at first something very present and noticeable, but as it grows and works further into the system it almost normalizes. The greatest fear of loneliness is that it is easy to become regular. It's the idle ghost that haunts, that slips it's hand over yours and all you can feel is cold. Loneliness is something you can curse at, and it will weather through all storms to stick steady at your side. It will take all blame and all wretched screaming and still stand there, still embrace you in the end. Loneliness can find someone anywhere and take their hand, and while it makes no noise the impact is undeniable.                              loneliness is something you can hate                              it is something you can denounce                              something you can b l a m e                              and in the end after emotions wither                              loneliness will still wait for youLoneliness is familiar. It courts you slowly after it's initial strike, and it will nurse all those wounds until they are numb and forgotten. Loneliness is horrid company, but the fact it is company at all makes it okay. Loneliness lives in small sighs and in the spaces between ribs that guard the heart, ever aiming to spread it's reach so that it's cold fingers can touch that thriving, beating heart. At some point Loneliness may even hold it, murmuring perhaps that it is safer this way, there's no chance for anyone else to harm it, and wouldn't you prefer Loneliness hurt you the way it has? The way you know? The way you expect it to? Loneliness is intimate, and old friend, and somehow it's always let back in, no matter the noise or ruckus that may try to block it out.

Nothing is more painful than loss. Nothing.It is the raw sound of anguish splitting lips, burning tears slipping free regardless of invitation or not, and the delicate collapse of one's heart in slow motion. It's hands gripped tight, nails cutting perfect little crescent shapes into the palms and not feeling one bit of it. It's feeling everything, all hope and love and hurt all at once, it's experiencing a lifetime in a moment that's drawn out for eons more. Loss is raw throated despair, in the horrid shake of dry sobs when there's no more tears to shed. Loss is losing all feeling in your limbs and the inability to allow your mind or heart to do the same. It's personal and intimate, knowing exactly what will do the most damage, and Loss is holding your hand through it all and tucking your head in to allow it to take it's course. Loss hurts with you, cries with you, curses with you, but it can't go away.Loss knows too may names and too many faces, and it will forever look like each and everyone of them.                              Loss is knowing there is no clan to return to.                              Loss is the childhood never fully experienced.                              Loss is love wasted and ruined on years of lies.                              Loss is losing all direction and all faith.                              Loss is forgetting your own name                              --and forgetting the way your mother used to say it.                              Loss is having every shred of Hope scrubbed away at bit by bit, it's becoming a blank slate and losing all that once was so dear and treasured. Loss is names carves into that foundation, names that can never be recovered or reclaimed, souls who would never see the light of day or breathe again. Loss is giving in, Loss is screaming and destroying, in taking down everything with you.                                                            And the worst part is, Loss lingers.Loss shows up in mirrors unannounced, in the edge of your vision, and in places you thought were long healed. Loss isn't shy about it, it stands there clear and sudden, head hanged, palms outwards, and ready for the collapse. Loss is that moment when your stomach drops and all of the grief and anger that had been worked through becomes for naught, because the whole process restarts itself. Loss never hurts any less, and never becomes easier to manage or predictable. The best you can do is simply allow it, embrace Loss, and understand that it's not something you can ever get rid of.

Joy is loud, loud to compensate for all it has been missed. It is bright and demanding, a burning in your chest and that inexplicable understanding that all is achievable. It's the sight of land stretched out in every direction and not one thing to tether you back from simply going. Joy is less a song and the sheer noise of music, the thumping of drums in your veins and the force of passion ripping through all resistances. It is unbridled and free, it is soaring and falling all at once and not ever once being fearful of where you'll end up. Joy is beautiful, wrought of dreams and things once thought of as foolish but borne into life and displayed in the light of day.It's the rush of water, in the cool, crisp sensation of churning streams. Joy is the veins of leaves illuminated by sunlight, in the torrent of storms, and in the intimate space between hand and stone when pressed up to a statue of those blessed.Joy had endured, locked away and out of reach for so long that refinding it is exhilarating, a burn that's almost painful because of how much it encompasses when it takes it's seat. It's understanding that the limitations you had once put on it cannot hold it back, and when Joy breaks through the restrictions you set it hurts, but it wholly welcome. Joy is the intake of breath, words collecting on the tip of a tongue however not yet swelling to fruition. Joy is never being able to find the right words because they would always be too constricting. It is larger than language, un-containable in letters or syllables or poems. Never can it truly be expressed, because there is no word for how the heart sings with Joy. It cannot be caged, cannot be defined, cannot be kept.                                              Joy is not a thing.                                             Joy is also not being a thing any longer.It is long sought and finally welcome, experienced with each opportunity between all of the other cluster of grievances that thrive. Joy had found it's home nestled in breastbone, allowed to sing and scream and laugh with each sunset. It is allowed to soar on the winds above places that were once impossible to see, let alone feel with hands and feet and heart.

Trust is terrifying.It was something cultivates in small quarters, a familiar touch of warning between working behind those masks and in such grand rooms. Trust was relying on someone to keep you from stepping a line--it was less friendship, and more kinship. An understanding that they were the only eyes on each others backs, the only hands they could trust not to inflict punishment or pain. It was scarce, trust was, and ripped away the moment it became too comfortable, leaving an aching cavity where once there might've been something. Trust endangered familiarity, it brought a mark upon the back of someone's skull and a target right over their h e a r t.Trust was better left for dreams, something you could slip into once exhaustion wearied bones and left all numb. Trust was a fancy, something you perhaps believed in, but not something you practiced. Trust is guarded behind every wall imaginable to try and keep it safe, from preventing any more wounds or aches to bruise and scar it. Trust had been stories of gods who listened and helped with guiding hands and visions of love, of faith and warmth and kindness, and that has been dashed. Trust was a lie, the most painful sort of truth that shatters mind and heart when it lands--not with a bang, but with a sigh.Trust had no right to be a star littered in the sky, something beautiful and unobtainable, something that shone with such ferocity but felt so cold and distant.                              Trust is foolish--                                             --an empty promise                                             --long lost faces                                             --names scarred in his heart                                             --a dreadful traitorAnd now? Trust is gentle. A fledgling on stilt-legs learning how to walk, how to survive within an area that isn't constantly attacking it from every angle. It has a chance to find it's footing, to find balance, and to find other things to lean on. Trust has been wounded, had been torn asunder and wrecked, and in the aftermath stitched together with the thread of Hope and cast out to see what it may net.Trust is a resilient thing, a hard-won thing, and while it should be protected perhaps what it needs is someone to fight for it rather than shelter it.

Anticipation is a stomach-ache. It's worry and thrill mixing into a concoction that's so very bitter. It's knowing that the blow will strike, but not where--and if you do know where, it's knowing that it's coming but not when. It's holding yourself tense waiting for it to land, and it's even worse than the strike itself. The waiting is what hurts more. It's gravel on the edges of your mind, it's sandpaper running across raw skin and not being able to get a full breath. It's the fear that when you do breathe it's too loud, too evident, too present, as if it detracts from what is to come.Anticipation is the chorus of high wailing strings, overlapping and growing into a whine. It's the burn of not breathing for fear of tripping up what's ahead. It's chorused in by false smiles that don't quite reach eyes, with routine motions that are overlooked and taken for granted. Anticipation is the itch in your palms when you know what to do, when patience and resolve wore thin enough to snap some time ago and now all there is is the wait before you make your action. It's knowing you're going to burn, and you're taking down all you can with you. It's taking note of the surroundings and knowing you will damn it all with you. Anticipation is the satisfaction of knowing you're going out like a damned bomb, and you're taking down all of those demons with you. It's knowing that you're the one making the blow, knowing how it will land, and knowing what it will do.                              it sits and consumes                              it hollows out what it can                              and fills it with tension                              it's pulling tight until breaking                              right before it all s n a p sAnticipation is right before you break, where excitement couples with dread. It's even that clear-headed sensation the moment before, when all the pieces fall into place and everything fits. Anticipation is horrible, it is wonderful. It's nothing you want and everything you crave. It will drive you mad and you will love it. Anticipation is the wait you hate and cherish all at once, it will eat you away from the inside and you will smile.

Perseverance is the fever-dream of hope. It's the strain of muscles, the sharp bite of extending too far in the name of survival for the glimmer of something better at the end of it. Perseverance is endurance, it's taking all of the time, the pain, the want, and seeding it down into your core. It's the bitter idea that something could grow there if you can push far enough, if you can stay to the task and see it through until the end, if you can just make that damned hope bloom with that small shaft of sunlight that's the prize at the end of the hardship.Perseverance is trudging through hell lined with tapestries, gilded frames, and intricate tile work. It's the familiar ache in one's neck from keeping a head bent for so long, it's the way you can still remember every notch and imperfection in the tile work because if you had something to focus on and drown everything out, perhaps persisting through these trials would be worth it. It's the way those patterns are still seen on the inside of your eyelids ages later. Perseverance is cutting the meat of the inside of your cheek to keep from stepping out of line, it's the lies you need to feed yourself to keep your mind intact, it's the lies you'll gladly believe as long as you can keep your back straight and your jaw strong. It's when you can stop your hands from shaking because you know you're in it until the end.It is the belief that all those wasted years amounted to something viable, perseverance is. It's the fire that you can't put out, the delightful agony in the need for the goal at the end. Perseverance is buying into the idea that hope will work out in the end, even if years trickle by one by one with no sign of your footing ever changing.It is frustration drawn out in tears, its fingernails bit down to the quick, it is that murmured mantra that                               it will be worth it                                             it will be worth it                                                            it will be worth it---Perseverance is sometimes, sometimes, getting what you hoped for. And when you reach that high, that heartbreaking realization that you made it, it's just enough to fuel your resolve for the next test of it that comes your way.