I clutched my life and wished it kept,
my dearest love, I’m not done yet
A single candle sat lit in front of his hooves, white in color but small and unassuming. Nothing else was around it, an altar without offering. Vikander’s eyes of frigid, ice blue were locked upon the twisting, twirling flame, watching the wick burn in a numb, unfeeling daze.
The cold, piercing wind of autumn swept over him but he didn’t move from his silent sentry, fearful that the breeze would put out the flame on this lonely candle situated away from everyone else, away from the laughter and celebrating, the cider and mead. He hadn’t moved an inch in what could possibly be hours, the muscles of his legs and shoulders stiff and rigid, toeing the line of painful. Once again, he had forgotten his cloak. Lieve’tel would berate him rather fiercely once he returned to the Scarab, but until then, the Friesian remained still with his head lowered and eyes downcast to watch the pitiful flame.
Elisbet…
They said that the spirits of the dead were closer to the veil that separated them from the realm of the living this late in the season. They said that the spirits of the dead could be seen, figures and apparitions drifting through the streets and alleyways to visit loved ones they had left behind. Vikander wanted nothing more than to find whoever ‘they’ were and choke the life out of them yet he lacked the desire, the energy, and the heart to move.
He could feel the very spirits that danced around the streets of the Market. Attuned to the dead as he was, a master manipulator of their very souls, he could feel each one as it passed by him, intent on seeking out the ones it had left behind. As though knowing of his ability to snare lost souls, the spirits gave him a wide berth, venturing around him, avoiding him like the plague. Perhaps that was for the best.
One spirit, however, lingered closer than the others. It stood stationary near his back as though watching him, but Vikander did not have the heart to believe that it could be her. Disappointment had been a constant for months, since the fluke of bringing his daughter back to life. For so many weeks after that incident, Vikander had slaved over trying to find a way to return his beloved Elisbet to him, but had failed every single time. Every ingredient that he had obtained to bring Lieve’tel back had been used up upon completion of the ceremony, and he had been left to start over from scratch… But how could he obtain such rare and valuable items?
The nights of sleeplessness had turned into weeks, then months, and finally… How long? A year? Had it been a year? Vikander no longer remembered. Time was losing meaning once again. All he knew was that the smile of his daughter, the laughter of her sing-song voice, the happy glitter to her eyes, awaited him back home… And yet he still could not move.
Letting his eyes fall closed, the soul weaver stood in the cold autumn wind, the evening light gradually giving way to rich darkness. Night fell, the hours passed, and the temperature dropped close to freezing, and still the Friesian did not move. Eventually the small white candle burned out, the wick gone, nothing but a flat stain of wax remaining. The souls drifted on, leaving him to his silent, lonely vigil, and the one that he could feel watching him from behind finally turned to leave as well.
"the sharp knife of a short life
i've had just enough time"
Dusk pained the sky.
All around her the world was set in a reverent state. Candles flickered, but not to romanticize the setting; instead they cast a tranquil, but melancholy atmosphere. The weight of the past hung heavy upon the shoulders of many that had come to this part of the marketplace, but for the dainty fae stead - her heart was light, even if the occasional tear fell. She had come to terms with Convallis's untimely death so long ago, but the would in her heart likely wouldn't ever heal. What mother has to bury their child before they'd seen their first year end?
A life too short.
She stood before a slab of rock, a pedestal of rememberance. THe candle she had lit was small and fragile; as delicate and tiny as the life of the one it immortalized on this night. It flickered lightly, the lame dancing in the gentle breeze, "My little Convallis," her words were soft and light, as if soothing a frightened child, though she'd hope where ever her son was, he wasn't ever feeling a touch of fright. Surely he'd joined the ancestors in the stars, "I know yo're not antagonizing your father, my sweet colt; you were always such a well behaved foal. I suppose I shouldn't remind you to behave, but make sure you are listening to pater tuus, et avia est avo tuo." The words were a mixture of her people's Latin tongue and ancestry, as well the English of more modern times. Convallis had been raised on both.
The smart child.
"I'm in a land called Novus now. I'm medicus, just as I was in our home Sanctuary; but now for a herd called Nocte Aula; the Night Court. Denocte is beautiful, I believe you would have loved it here. Ah, puer mi carissime, how I've miss you, child. Be happy Convallis. Tell your Pater I miss him." Miss him didn't describe how hard it had been after she had lost Calico. Calico, Convallis and she - they were meant to be a family together, for a long time, the rest of her and Calico's lives. How it had all been cut short when the Sanctuary had been infiltrated, their escape routes discovered. She still wasn't sure how she could have escaped when no one else had. She didn't understand how it was fair. She'd lost so much, so suddenly.
It wasn't fair.
A single tear touched her fur, trailing down her cheek. She watched the flame for a few moments more before levitating a fair many stones up - a shelter forming around the tiny candle so the wind wouldn't extinguish it like the fates had extinguished the life it represented, "Farewell, my little Convallis. Shine bright, dear child."
Like one of the stars.
She had to force herself to turn away, long ivory strands of mane obscuring brown eyes as they blinked back the tears. Convallis was in the skies now, with her parents, her Calico. Arson would watch over her son as well, as if Convallis was his own. Her son wouldn't be alone. Tremaine, had he not been made of a different cloth, would have joined her family as well; protection and caring for Convallis in the stars.. But Convallis still had the others, he hadn't ascended alone. He was with the family, they would love and protect him up there.
She would miss him below.
It was a reminder of how alone she was, though. Her kingdom was gone, the last of her people hidden away and out of reach with her last surviving family: her little brother Nocte. Now, Caelum had no one . . . A violent shake of her head had those thoughts being banished before they could fully form and shake in. Even if her family was gone, she had a new herd to stay strong for. She has the promises she made to the few friends she had made of the years - to not let the guilt, and the pain keep her from living. She would stay strong.
Shadows slunk in.
The night had arrived as she'd whispered goodbyes to her sun, shading her lighter tones in the blanket of the increasing darkness. Her wings hummed as they began to flutter, lifting her slight weight as her long and dainty limbs half folded beneath her. She started to leave, her gaze dancing over the now empty memorial space. Was she the last to whisper goodbyes before seeking the warmth of the bonfires? She missed him the first time her chocolate gaze crossed the memorials. But why would she have thought he there? He was as still and dark as a shadow in the night, no flickering flame to cast a relief of gold and crimson upon his hide.
He seemed frozen.
She turned to fly past him, leaving him to his mourning, before pausing and glancing back at the forlorn figure. Her wings drew her closer, enough to see the waxy stain of a candle spent, and the defeated hang of his neck. How long had he been standing their in stillness? Did he not feel the cold? She hesitated, unsure about interrupting his mourning. Her gaze slowly drew back to Convallis's candle and she sighed in acknowledgement. Her sweet child would have gone to see if the stallion was alright - and so should she. She couldn't let him freeze to death, not even to mourn. "Excuse me?" Her voice was light and gentle, but unwavering, "I . . . apologize for interrupting your time, but the night has grown frigid," She wouldn't tell him to leave, no one understood the need to pay respects like those here for that same reason.
Everyone needed time for goodbyes.
But she did worry for the living's health as well. Her voice softened with compassion, even as she was careful not to say too much, to assume too much, "I doubt your loved one would wish you to stand out in the cold air, and grow sick on their behalf," She added, before glancing at the waxy staining once more, "It is admirable to stand in mourning to the point of candle's wane, but you must think of your own well being as the night sets and the temperature drops. The one the candle was lit for . . . I can't imagine they would wish you to join them before your time."
Perhaps too far?
But she wouldn't force him away, even as her brows knitted in concern - so gentle persuasion, even if hard truths; was her best bet. Her wings fluttered, discharging a touch of fairy dust as she lowered herself back to standing on the ground, silent but waiting for the inevitable response, and likely unfriendly one from the one she'd just pulled from a state of mourning. Even if for his betterment . . . she doubted he'd see it that way. So she straightened her shoulders, raised her head and prepared to take what ever was delivered with the grace of a queen, and the gentleness her mother had encouraged in her. Strong but compassionate was the queen, even in the forefront of mourning.
I clutched my life and wished it kept,
my dearest love, I’m not done yet
On more than one occasion Vikander had been told that his tendency to lose himself could lead to his death.Usually it was by Senna, but lately it had been Aghavni and August, and on the rare occasion by Madeline. Losing his sense of self, his awareness, and his surroundings could prove fatal if in the right situation. He could trip and fall off of the edge of a cliff. He could fall in the lake and drown. An assassin could sneak up behind him with very little effort and shove a dagger in his heart. Oddly enough, the Friesian found the simple idea of that dangerously enticing.
Please, he wanted to beg to his imagined attacker, his eyes still shut, his heart clenched with a terrible, awful pain, Please do it.
No matter how long he stood there in mourning, however, the imagined assassin never came. A pity. What did come was a voice; feminine. A stranger. Her voice cut through the fever of his mind but the soft, dulcet tone of her inquiries did not warrant a physical reaction. He hadn’t the strength for it.
So, Vikander listened, his head lowered in that same defeated stance simply because he did not have the energy to turn and walk away from her well-placed concerns. The frigid breeze kicked up, toying with the long, curling, knotted strands of his ebony hair. It seemed that he had forgotten to brush it recently, if the tangled mess was anything to go by.
He uttered not a single word in reply. Every word that the woman earnestly spoke seemed to fall on deaf ears. The soul weaver remained a stationary statue, frozen by the cold that he felt deep within his breast. It infiltrated his heart and his mind and stole all form of meaning and reasoning. It was a familiar chill, reminding him very intimately of the cold kiss of the dead. It was the woman’s delicate final statement that finally snapped Vikander out of his macabre reverie.
’The one the candle was lit for… I can't imagine they would wish you to join them before your time.’
With a great deal of effort, he finally moved. The sullen shadow lifted his jaw and something in his neck cracked, the freezing depths of his soulless, icy eyes rolling until they focused on her. His jaw worked itself, tongue pressing against the back of his filmy teeth as he feebly looked at her without truly seeing her.
What would this kindly woman think if she knew that the one the candle had been lit for was currently a cold corpse occupying the empty space in his attic? That he climbed the hidden narrow stairs every evening to press a tender kiss to her frozen, preserved cheek?
Vikander blinked very slowly, feeling numb. When he spoke to reply he couldn’t feel his lips, and his voice was a raspy croak. “... What?” It took a few moments but eventually the soul weaver was able to piece together what this silvery woman had said to make some semblance out of her concerns. “Oh. The c-cold. It isn’t that bad.”
After all, he had been frozen for so long that it was only a matter of time until the outside matched what was within.
"the sharp knife of a short life
i've had just enough time"
Dark, cold and the wind blows.
It was the perfect evening for coming forth and mourning, and Caelum couldn't deny herself, or the others around her from doing so; even if she only lit one candle aflame this day. Her son's life cut so short, so soon, it was painful for the should-be queen to admit just how painful that single candle was to light. Even if her heart hurt for other lost souls too. She'd mourn those loved and gone another night, this one had been for her son - and could one blame her for hesitating to mourn stallions passed - a history like hers, where every significant and romantic could-be mate met and end too soon?
Everyone dies . . .
Arson had been her first love, the friendship that grew stronger and into something pure and wonderful and yet innocent. Calico had been her last, a relationship that started as comrades over a shared goal and turned into something deeper with their child being born. And . . . Tremaine. His name is whispered less in her mind than any other, perhaps for the deep pain associated with her demon. When they say opposites attract - that didn't even begin to describe what she and Tremaine had had. He was the darkness to her vibrancy, the quick anger to her gentle nurture. He'd been the strength and protector, she'd been the soft and caring. They'd complimented each other in ways no one had completed them before. And when their worst traits came out, the other had soothed them. She'd been life, and he'd been death - the fairy princess and the demon recluse.
Her heart burned cold.
As it typically did when she thought about the dark stallion who'd been her fondest of companions, the stallion that had almost cost her the ability to ever love again. A warmth suddenly settled against her chest, directly beneath the softly glowing ruby gem around her neck. The stone itself was growing warmer, pulsing as if to remind her not all was lost, and she bit back a bitter smile at the only reminder she had left of Tremaine and their time together. The artifact was near useless beyond it's reassurances. Before it would alert him should she run into trouble, a secondary layer of protection as he couldn't not try to keep her safe.
It now sung to silence.
No one would hear the warning chimes of her getting in over her head. No ebony stallion with fire in his gaze would come to rescue her any longer. His too-hot demon wings would never wrap her in warmth to shelter during the coldest of nights. His charming, if not fang-filled smirk would never delight a laugh from her muzzle. And his own rich laughter would never perk her up, his warm voice would never chase away the chill.
He took a light away with his death.
Calico had helped, after they'd realized they were more than just comrades facing off against the darkness, and her son had warmed what hadn't been touched in a long time, but once they left, the whole left behind had grown, and the cold that had settled around her after Tremaine's untimely end had come back in full force. Perhaps the truth for why she'd not lit a candle for Arson, Calico or Tremaine was the fact the one she missed most was her demon rebel; and she knew it improper to focus on one life gone above the rest. The others didn't deserve that, but Tremaine had been so special, some wild and fiery - and had left her in the frigid cold.
As cold inside as out.
Perhaps it is why she didn't bother with heading away from the area with the first darkening of the sky - she felt such coldness in her soul that the weather outside did little to tempt her away. But in hanging around longer, unable to walk from her son; she had seen another waiting and silent. She had never the intention to approach, never the intention to interrupt - and yet . . . . she had moved towards him, speaking softly in concern to him being outside in the cold.
Pot, meet kettle.
Who was she to judge when she'd stayed just as late to mourn, to used to the cold to be bothered to deeply with it. Simply burying the ice and snow that had been her fire and love into her soul and forcing herself to move the frozen limbs, and keep the facade on her face proper. A queen doesn't show pain, doesn't show when she's hurting. She must be strong for her people, even when she thinks she can't go any further, Are you proud of me, mother? Who knew her mother's teachings can be turned to this.
Despite the cold, she lived.
The heart had frozen off the chance of love, of being hurt ever again but she pushed forward, smiled and laughed - made friends and lived her life. Lived for those who could not, wasn't that what she'd promised Shiori? And she prospered to do so, which meant helping others move on and live on as well - even a stallion stoic before a spent candle. She wasn't sure if she broke through to the stallion, he not moving - keeping his defeated stance. Her heart sung with a heavy song, she knew the look well enough, one who'd outlived a love. Perhaps this was a better example for why she couldn't bring herself to light a candle for Tremaine, would she end up in this state of depressed defeat? Arson would be met with fond, but sad memories. Calico would be remembered and sadly relieved he was there for their son among the stars. Tremaine . . . would be her undoing.
He had that affect on her.
The breeze suddenly picked up, and her gaze followed the unkempt mess of his dark tresses, even as her own thick ivory locks billowed around her face, picked up in the wind that was so eager to hold her. Her hooves stayed firmly on the ground as she tried to speak to the other again - but a reply never came, she wasn't even sure if he was aware of her speech, of her concern, until suddenly her final comment had him moving. His jaw lifted, and she had to keep from flinching at the crack to his neck bones - he'd clearly been too long out here.
His eyes were freezing.
Chocolate met Ice, and she couldn't help but be unnerved by the soulless, freezing depths - and perhaps for the first time since she'd made the decision to keep moving forward, she worried if her eyes told her own story of her heart frozen away with out Tremaine's touch, or her son's laughter to warm it up. She squared her shoulders, pushing those worries into the same ball of cold that had been left behind after Tremaine's departure from this world. She didn't want to ponder, or even worry on such thoughts, they would do her no good. She had to keep strong, hold on. She was better than the coldness he'd left behind to cage her heart and fire.
She kept moving, even without him.
Her attention refocused on the male before her, and she tilted her head in obvious concern at his seeming distance. His voice was raspy, nearly croaking as he merely asked a quiet 'What?' Caelum paused, before tilting her head and almost taking on a more stern expression before she let loose a shy and shook her head, those ivory threads dancing around her blue facade, "I take that as it being safe to assume you hadn't caught a word I'd uttered?" She mused softly, even as he seemed to start to piece things together, commenting the cold wasn't so bad. Caela eyed him quietly, letting a soft amount of quiet penetrate the air between them.
No, perhaps the cold wasn't too bad.
Not to those who felt the same within. Caelum wouldn't allow herself to dwell on that. That was the difference in her acts to bury the frozen heart behind walls of her own making to keep the ice from spreading, to keep her able to be out and about and take part in things around her. Yes, the deepest part of her, that should shine bright and warm with love was frozen off and most reflections of that emotion now had a tendency to taste fake to her tongue, but she kept pushing forward, unwilling to let it bury her in the snow and ice it wanted to spread.
She had to be stronger than that.
Her smile was warm, a touch teasing as she eyed the dark stallion, "Oh, yes, the cold isn't all that bad at all - there's only the start of ice growing where water had set, and the air is only cold enough to see your own words fan from your muzzle - it's practically a warm summer night indeed." She shook her head, her gaze gentling, her voice softening, "Or is it more the case you've stopped being able to notice the cold? Still, it begs the question - would the others in your life not feel a since of disappointment to see your neglect of yourself, should you be found by daybreak, frozen in place?" She knew a few friends that should they catch her in the same predicament she'd found him in, that it'd be a total mutiny. She'd have a chaperone, and plenty of interventions for weeks until she could pretend to be normal well enough to pass inspection.
Perhaps it was why she wasn't judging him.
It's hard to judge someone when you're hiding what they must be feeling. Cael had buried the ball of ice and cold into the center of her being, present and frigid, but with enough clouds and sunshine and rainbows that few would know it lay in wait to spread and conquer her attempts to be normal . . . Looking at the dark stallion, she wonders if he had given into that cold . . . "Well, if you don't mind me asking, even if you're not the sort to note the cold, would you walk a lady back to the bonfires?" It was a touch of a ploy - to get him away from the cold, closer to the fires that could spread warmth - and with pleading to most stallions' more chivalrous behavior, she might even succeed. Her muzzle stilled as she awaited his reply - whether it be to take up a verbal spar of not being to cold, or it be an acceptance to walk her from the cold, and thus deliver him to warmth.
