In loving me
you hold a knife at my throat

weat drips as blood down my neck, winding further and further away from pale, braided hair. It is tight along the arch of my neck, pressed into skin, pulled into a shape meant more for war than mere practice or daily life. The only indication of who I am, what I am (for I am starlight, I am terror incarnate, I am Death), is the golden circlet pierced by a single arrow just behind my ears. My father places it there daily when I do not, but by now it is more ritual than anything to put it in my hair.








This is my future. 

{ @Aeon "speaks" notes: <3 }

in loving you
i tell you exactly where to cut

lared wings and flashing colors, the look of blood that is not blood. Both my fallen soldier and I look to the boy who looks to us. Even with our heaving sides, I know our eyes scream for the taste of flesh slamming into flesh, of torn skin and bloody smiles. And he, this little warrior, wears youth on his skin like a summer storm. It flashes in the curve of his muscles not quite filled out yet, in the broadening of his jaw that still is learning to be a man. But he has years to go.

My cousins were leggy like this soldier once. Some of them still are. But this burned, brave boy is not them, and I do not have to worry retribution should I scrape his sides that already look to ache.

Pale brows raise, I know they do, when I assess the burns upon him, just once, and tilt my head. Taller. Someday, likely, stronger. He would be a beautiful tank in the sky, barreling through opposing forces like a bolt of hellfire or lightning. “Sofia,” I purr while helping my partner up. “All you need to know about this guy is not to be like him.” Fond laughter leaves my lips, or perhaps it is fierce in the way its edges glisten like broken glass or the scream of a crow. Muttering, Arik rolls his shoulders before walking away, hiding his limp the best he can. None of us remember how many times we’ve fallen, all we know how to do is rise once more.

“Why do you fight, Aeon, my dear falcon?” I do not need his name (do I need to, truly, when he is blessed by the skies and could be so much more?), and I wonder if he is here from the Halcyon. Birds of a feather flock together, and that rowdy bunch have plenty of old birds up their sleeves. Juniper likes to dance around the fields once in a while, but even she is called back to her aerial unit to train relentlessly. Dainty and darling, pressing herself into the sides of others like a snake about our necks. Dalmatia hasn’t been seen in Dusk properly for months, but every now and again there are sightings of the old fool. I know (we all know) her pride will kill her.

Truly, I’m not sure anymore if she even cares. Once, I know, my father knew her well in their youths. Dalmatia had been something to boast about. Something my mother loved, too, so the story goes. But even onces fade as people do. “I fight, simply, because it is all I know.” And how my monster purrs at that, stretching and rolling to her back gaily. She reminds me with that saccharine sickness, that wickedness curled inside, that fighting is not all I know – well, perhaps it is a different kind of battle when teeth clash and eyes yearn to devour another’s soul from across the room. Perhaps, she reminds me darkly, there is more than one type of fighting that we know.

{ @Aeon "speaks" notes: <3 harhar let's see if I can actually fite LOL }