so darling, darling stand by me
ohh stand by me, stand by me
ohh stand by me, stand by me
Winter's kiss lays a shroud of gauze around her soul, her heart; wrapping it in frost and bruising her in ice that coats the lining of her veins. She burns despite the cold, as her muscles ache with earning and the breath that fills her lungs shreds her open, like tiny glass shards. Each step, each swoop of her wings, every fell of oxygen in her throat.. she grows. Like a bloom defiant against the hard won battle of spring; blossoming in a blanket of snow in a shock of color and beauty. Chaos written in nature's grasp.
She desires to be like that flower; the first sight of growth in late winter. Much like the lavender blossoms that trickle in the breeze and follow a goddess-made-queen. A woman she had thrown herself over the same cliffs of this land for; her heart broken and beaten and torn. The woman who was blessed by gold and milk and honey and spring triumphant. The woman who held the heart of the man she had once come to love, once upon a time. A woman who she had trusted, then betrayed her, only to offer a branch of peace in the coming of snow and frost and winter wonderlands.
The memory tugs, but still she walks. Firelight dances across her skin as she meanders past the bonfires lining the cliff face, the crowds falling away at her sides. The stormsinger breathes in the wood smoke and exhales ash, the music fading away from her, when once, the drums would beat against her like a second heart. Her gut tightens with each step, the festival sparking a kaleidoscope of emotions from the bottom of her soul and to her lungs; choking her of reason and oxygen.
She inhales, exhaling. Again and again until her racing heart slows, thinking of that one, beautiful flower that blossoms in the dead of winter. Despite all of the odds.
Aislinn will become rebirth; she is healing. She will be remade. And the months she had parted from her home, her king, her Court, her Calligo, have made her so. Her shoulders are near weightless from their burdens, her wings spread wide to welcome the twinkling stars and a kingdom foreign to her. But there is a shadow that grows, taking root far inside her. A gathering dark that gnaws, like a monster clawing at the inside of her ribs and dripping in ichor. She is not free, not yet. So she walks, like a ghost made thunder and storm and blizzards, to the edge of a place she never thought she would return to once more.
Now, amidst the same cliffs that tore her open, cleaving her in two when she was already broken pieces, the stormsinger stands. The violet petals that float in the flurries of snow the path she follows to the edge of the world. Where the earth ends and the sea begins, Aislinn stops. Her hooves gracing the white stone beneath her; her lungs filled with ice and salt and brine of an angry sea. But she is not angry.. no, not at all. Her heart weighs heavier than most; a mending thing sewn with strings the color of dusk brushing the sky before the coming of night.
Like the stars above her, Calligo murmurs to her stormchild. Her divine sister's watercolors splotch across the expanse of sky in riddles of spring and muted cold. The sun slumbers, sinking below the horizon, and the moon will soon slowly rise. Ink descends over the heavens as she looks up up up. One hoof poised, delicate, she bows her crown to those skies, and what gods lay hidden among the stars. Her goddess among them; bless her, for despite her wanderings.. Calligo never forgot her. For Aislinn would do well not to forget her too, as she rises, a gaze born of brightest blue flames a pyre of wonder in the night. She is a beacon of the darkness eternal, as shatters of stardust fall from above and cling to her skin. A breathing star-map and a true embodiment of the place she calls her forever home.
A phantom smile pulls the corners of her lips at the very thought, as the shadow seedling in her claws and claws and claws. She has a purpose, she knows, and now she must wait. Her home, her kingdom, her Court.. they call to her. But she is not done yet; for a question lingers on the edge of her mouth, unspoken. Aislinn has never asked for help before.
And now she must ask the love of her king, for a kindness she prayed the new Queen would bear. Forgive me, Calligo, for I will sin.
At her side, stands the opposite of her coin. Where she was once the warrior shrouded in hell and shadows and stars, Florentine is the kind whisper of a spring breeze that heals without the use of words. A stormsinger and a flower girl, atop the cliffs once more. She feels like she is awake in a dream, but she knows it is not so. For once, nightmares did not plague her as her gaze fell upon the woman at her side. Her stomach did not drop, nor roil, and a dagger did not pierce the center of her chest. Instead, she remembers her comforting touch, and the whispers of a lullaby on the edge of her memory, like a nearly forgotten dream.
She remembers the olive branch, and instead of lightning sizzling across her skin in anger, Aislinn smiles softly. Her breath courageously even, despite the shadow that threatens to drown her. "Blessed evening, Queen," she begins, her question toying with her lips as gooseflesh rises on her legs. "I do hope I am not intruding."
@
"Aislinn speech."
