and bury it before it buries me
The last few rays of sun dance against her left flank, and reflecting the pretty patterns of the evening light on her skin. The autumn eve is cool, the soft breeze caresses her back gentle, like a lovers touch, like hands running down her spine. Elena stands quiet, ears not quite listening. Her lips are drawn into a thin line, serious, and yet they are soft and a promise to turn into a smile at the smallest prompt. She doesn't know how long she stays in Denocte, but it is long enough that the stars begin to flood the sky, and Elena gasps. It was stunning.
“If you want to remember, you should come to Denocte’s lake one night and watch the stars from there.”
She had not been thinking those words, had not thought of those words in so long, not until they shine back to her now, in a blanket of navy blue, obsidian. And maybe, she remembers them now because there is still hope. Hope, an entirely fragile thing, an unreliable thing – it sits like St. Elmo’s Fire, a promise of light in the distance that she could never get any closer to. “Lantern?” Says a stranger. “You can make a wish.” Only one? She thinks. Elena’s heart think she would rather have none than only one to give. The flame is lit inside it, but Elena does not let hers go like the others, instead she holds it fast, like she should have done with her heart. Instead, she watches, as all the others float away, like dancing sunlight in the darkness.
With lantern in hand, she walks down to the lake. She should feel happy, excited, like magic on an evening like this. There are still butterflies in her stomach, a hundred impossible creatures with wings as soft as snowflakes and they are tying knots and tearing holes and leaving wounds in her heart because everything hurts, everything aches, and she doesn’t want to breathe. But she inhales, sharp and practiced as she watches a monk baptize himself in lake of the night. There are scars on his back and Elena traces them with blue eyes. It is him, she has traced the lines of his body enough to know this. She breathes softly, the longing still fighting against the common sense that’s waving a red flag in the back of her mind.
He submerges himself, and she wonders if she had only imaged seeing him, but he rises, from the water, as if reborn. She wants to unfold the map of his heart and trace the constellations within it. She wants to know all of the different shadows and caves and dark corners. She wants to know the sharp edges. The haunted pieces. The places where she can knick her finger and draw blood. The places that could gut her.
“Tenebrae,” she says, quiet, so soft that even the stars twinkling above them, can’t hear her. She does not say his name for him, but for herself, it know that it still makes her feel as daring and reckless as it always had. She would be a thief in the night to steal but a moment with him. With a brazen look in those eyes of blue, she takes a chance and she stays.
In some ways, she is in love with a shadow. With the smoke of him. She reaches for him but grasps onto nothing, leaving a bitter ache in her stomach. And yet, she can feel him like a weight in her chest. Elena has always been sunlight, been fire, impossible to catch, impossible even more so to hold, but she will now sit there in the shadows and beg them to swallow her whole if only she gets to feel them against her skin.
He looks at her.
Oh god, he looks at her.
And Elena swallows every breath that is stained with him. They say a woman would run through fire and through water for such a heart. And that men’s evil deeds live in brass, their virtues are written in water. So Elena will take up her paintbrush and write her love for him upon the satin of his cheek, the arch of his shoulder, the curve of his hip, and her lips will erase the sin from his.
She should go, she knows she should go. Blue eyes go upwards just as his own reach for hers. Her grandmother had said they are a guide, that the stars can tell you where you need to go. But Elena feels so lost that north could not possibly exists any longer, and she cannot bear to look at the compass in her hands because it keeps spinning and spinning and spinning until it leaves her dizzy. And her pulse hums and her chest aches.
He was right.
She remembers, she remembers it so much, so deeply, that she forgets the monk for an instant, forgets the man, forgets the shadows, and forgets her splintered heart slowly growing alive in her chest, like the flame of a lantern.
The golden girl (like sunshine, sunflowers, summer) doesn't move when those lips press against her throat. She stands in the shallow shores of the lake, but suddenly she cannot feel the water, cannot feel the cold, can only feel that heat that burns her skin like the embers of a bonfire. The way he touches her, it coaxes something sweet, something wild into the well of her chest. “I’m here.” Her mouth lingers on all of the syllables, drawing them out like honey as she speaks. It is only then she looks at him, and in a breath the stars are forgotten.
Her heart stutters in her chest, but she is quiet when she presses her mouth against his shoulder in return, tasting temptation on his skin with tremulous lips. A sigh builds in her chest, climbing to her lips and steadying the racing of her heart when she closes her eyes and leans into him, an impossible half-smile pressed into his skin. “And you,” she says, pulling her gaze upwards to him, as if to make up for all those glances she had thrown away when they sat beside the sea. “You’re here,” she says, and she looks at him like she is terrified she might forget him like she has the stars.
“You asked a favor of me, and now I ask one of you.” She isn't sure how she can speak when he leaves her breathless. “Remember me?” She asks, the request soft. She breathes, a sound like tempered birdsong, a release of pain and sorrow and longing – for many things, but mostly to be encased in shadows. In his shadows. “Don’t let me be some forgotten thing,” she says, begging him to promise. The words are a command, but her voice rings like a plea. He takes from her, and she takes from him.
And she is about to take even more.
“Tell me you love me.”
“If you want to remember, you should come to Denocte’s lake one night and watch the stars from there.”
She had not been thinking those words, had not thought of those words in so long, not until they shine back to her now, in a blanket of navy blue, obsidian. And maybe, she remembers them now because there is still hope. Hope, an entirely fragile thing, an unreliable thing – it sits like St. Elmo’s Fire, a promise of light in the distance that she could never get any closer to. “Lantern?” Says a stranger. “You can make a wish.” Only one? She thinks. Elena’s heart think she would rather have none than only one to give. The flame is lit inside it, but Elena does not let hers go like the others, instead she holds it fast, like she should have done with her heart. Instead, she watches, as all the others float away, like dancing sunlight in the darkness.
With lantern in hand, she walks down to the lake. She should feel happy, excited, like magic on an evening like this. There are still butterflies in her stomach, a hundred impossible creatures with wings as soft as snowflakes and they are tying knots and tearing holes and leaving wounds in her heart because everything hurts, everything aches, and she doesn’t want to breathe. But she inhales, sharp and practiced as she watches a monk baptize himself in lake of the night. There are scars on his back and Elena traces them with blue eyes. It is him, she has traced the lines of his body enough to know this. She breathes softly, the longing still fighting against the common sense that’s waving a red flag in the back of her mind.
He submerges himself, and she wonders if she had only imaged seeing him, but he rises, from the water, as if reborn. She wants to unfold the map of his heart and trace the constellations within it. She wants to know all of the different shadows and caves and dark corners. She wants to know the sharp edges. The haunted pieces. The places where she can knick her finger and draw blood. The places that could gut her.
“Tenebrae,” she says, quiet, so soft that even the stars twinkling above them, can’t hear her. She does not say his name for him, but for herself, it know that it still makes her feel as daring and reckless as it always had. She would be a thief in the night to steal but a moment with him. With a brazen look in those eyes of blue, she takes a chance and she stays.
In some ways, she is in love with a shadow. With the smoke of him. She reaches for him but grasps onto nothing, leaving a bitter ache in her stomach. And yet, she can feel him like a weight in her chest. Elena has always been sunlight, been fire, impossible to catch, impossible even more so to hold, but she will now sit there in the shadows and beg them to swallow her whole if only she gets to feel them against her skin.
He looks at her.
Oh god, he looks at her.
And Elena swallows every breath that is stained with him. They say a woman would run through fire and through water for such a heart. And that men’s evil deeds live in brass, their virtues are written in water. So Elena will take up her paintbrush and write her love for him upon the satin of his cheek, the arch of his shoulder, the curve of his hip, and her lips will erase the sin from his.
She should go, she knows she should go. Blue eyes go upwards just as his own reach for hers. Her grandmother had said they are a guide, that the stars can tell you where you need to go. But Elena feels so lost that north could not possibly exists any longer, and she cannot bear to look at the compass in her hands because it keeps spinning and spinning and spinning until it leaves her dizzy. And her pulse hums and her chest aches.
He was right.
She remembers, she remembers it so much, so deeply, that she forgets the monk for an instant, forgets the man, forgets the shadows, and forgets her splintered heart slowly growing alive in her chest, like the flame of a lantern.
The golden girl (like sunshine, sunflowers, summer) doesn't move when those lips press against her throat. She stands in the shallow shores of the lake, but suddenly she cannot feel the water, cannot feel the cold, can only feel that heat that burns her skin like the embers of a bonfire. The way he touches her, it coaxes something sweet, something wild into the well of her chest. “I’m here.” Her mouth lingers on all of the syllables, drawing them out like honey as she speaks. It is only then she looks at him, and in a breath the stars are forgotten.
Her heart stutters in her chest, but she is quiet when she presses her mouth against his shoulder in return, tasting temptation on his skin with tremulous lips. A sigh builds in her chest, climbing to her lips and steadying the racing of her heart when she closes her eyes and leans into him, an impossible half-smile pressed into his skin. “And you,” she says, pulling her gaze upwards to him, as if to make up for all those glances she had thrown away when they sat beside the sea. “You’re here,” she says, and she looks at him like she is terrified she might forget him like she has the stars.
“You asked a favor of me, and now I ask one of you.” She isn't sure how she can speak when he leaves her breathless. “Remember me?” She asks, the request soft. She breathes, a sound like tempered birdsong, a release of pain and sorrow and longing – for many things, but mostly to be encased in shadows. In his shadows. “Don’t let me be some forgotten thing,” she says, begging him to promise. The words are a command, but her voice rings like a plea. He takes from her, and she takes from him.
And she is about to take even more.
“Tell me you love me.”
so take away this apathy
bury it before it buries me
@Tenebrae <3
![[Image: ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db...0iFb4PvyXE]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/8026a53b-dc57-41ab-b574-9f8a8fe57ce4/ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db0780.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzgwMjZhNTNiLWRjNTctNDFhYi1iNTc0LTlmOGE4ZmU1N2NlNFwvZGR2b3R3ZS01OTMwMmJhNi02YTgxLTQ3YmYtOTg0Ni0zMGM1YTVkYjA3ODAucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.ujCJH7FAbsQhfZlQniMmEd_vw-VmvaTDn0iFb4PvyXE)
let's light this house on fire
we'll dance in the warmth of its blaze
pixel made by the amazing star
