⇝ @wldflwers { WITH. freya.
the river is a place of worshipping ; she remembers children dancing amidst the waters to pray for a goddess that has always answered their words with soft wind & eternal sunny days. the river is a place where life and death are the very same, both drowning out the despair of days following days following days. time is usually of the essence, its rhythmic tyranny forcing each & every one of them into movement ... but it is a fickle, terribly uneffective dictature now that the goddess is awaiting for the end of her own cycle, so very ready to let go of the heavy tick-tock of a clock that does not apply to freya anymore.
they killed the dancer, or the dancer killed herself, it is all hazy now that the story has repeated itself. have you not heard? the trees whisper the story. how she fought against herself ... no, against the boy. no, against the shadow of herself in the form of a boy. how she tried to escape his hold, how she welcomed it. how it was pure torture, how it was utter bliss. come on, have they not told you? they are all whispering it, expecting the maiden to leave her throne of leaves to join the dance once again to celebrate the end of pain, now that both dancer & devil are gone from the playgrounds ; but the maypole sits abandoned. the maiden, too, sits — feet in the water, body joining soon after, her white dress billowing at the surface like the ghost of her body, its white light shadow.
« freya, » she whispers. and it is a welcoming, it is an act of birth. the language shifts & transforms until it can give life to the words it wants. performative murmur, how "i love you" is both word & act, how "come back" is both an order & a desperate attempt at keeping what is already lost to the wind. words are beautiful frail things, just like flowers ; they wilt so very fast, their dried petals devoid of any familiar scent. and as the language tries to follow suit the natural transformation, words, too, fail at conveying anything undead. "i have loved you." yes, the past is the surest way to affirm death of the subject. but how do you plead for someone to turn around without making it an immediate request? come back, can you come back, could you come back, should you, shall you, will you come back? the desperate demand, the unforgiving need, forever in present tense. freya, freya, the words are stuck in her teeth like hard candy, and spitting them all only form a new song for the ghost to dance to: come back to me. as you were, as you are.
the answer comes too soon, a slow terrible scratching sound, as if the words were difficult to give birth to. dani nods, her smile a precious sight — the maiden, privy to an inside joke. « you do look etheral. » then, quiet, looking at her own human hands, terrible bleeding hands ... no, bloody hands. freyr's ghost breathing down her neck, the white of him a shadow she only catches while in movement. both of them forever leaving. there is no darkness, here. even in her mind, all thoughts as blinding flashes of light. a cruel picture, forever in motion. « i cannot lose you too. » she finally admits, a bit sheepish, eyes a bit wild, searching for the ghost & failing to catch the flickering silhouette. « or did that already happen? i don't know, i really don't know... » tears down cheeks, becoming rain, becoming the water of the lake. the eternal cycle ; all of life poured into the maiden's cup, her altar a place of drowning.
