𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐔𝐍𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆

❝ out of the forest i come with flowers, singing, all alone. ❞

[maidenhoods]

emperorvalmont​:

A bruised arm can heal in a matter of days, but the flesh is not the only thing that bruises. Press into the ego harsh enough, jab at pride with enough force, and you shall see the purple bloom upon it, marring it, perhaps even stunting its growth. Reynaud sits with his wartime injuries aching, but his pride taking the worse hit. Despite the defeat, Valeria did not make it a bloody or all too brutal one, the majority of aches coming from bruises and the worse ones simply re-aggravations of his marks from the war. A wound treated for infection reopened against the aggressive movements of the skin keeping it held together, a rolled ankle feeling worse than it had been after weeks of healing when the mud released it and he fell to the ground. But pride, the pride he felt in the victory he caused, the pride he had in the trophy he triumphantly brought to his father, that was damaged worse, especially as the symbol of victory tarnished to become a marker of his defeat.

And now, everyone crossing his path was target to his wrath. What he lacks in the ability to inwardly process these feelings, Reynaud more than makes up for in cruelty. Insults were thrown just as easily as papers and books and chalices and whatever else was within reach. He’s not sure what he wants, if it’s to be left alone or to have some sort of company he can tolerate, but it’s obvious he can’t tolerate the company of most after only a few moments, the cruelty crawling up his throat and out his lips to everyone thus far. What he wants is retribution. What he wants is respect. What he wants is… he’s not quite sure. 

Triss enters, and she’s perhaps the first person who Reynaud does not wish to throw out already. It might have something to do with the ache as the ends of his wounds sting, or the dull throbbing of an ankle, but it is still a small victory that he looks at her and waves her in with the curling of a few fingers, inviting her in.

“I don’t need courage,” he replies sharply, attempting to snatch the glass back after realizing her hand had already wrapped about it and brought it to herself. It’s true, he has enough stupid courage to supply the entire army. What he needed was a break from thinking, and he’d forgotten to replenish the stash of the substance that did just that from a few days ago. He needed liquid dreams. Liquid escapes. Liquid whatever the hell made him feel better in this moment. 

“And you are certainly not a fright.” He looks her up and down slowly, deliberately. “I could likely break you in two if I tried.” He stands, but is not so sharp in his movements when he does so, under the effects of the chalice’s contents. A hand extends. “Give me back my glass.”

she withholds the sweep of his gaze and waits for his eyes to land back upon hers, though not without wondering how many maidens (herself excluded) had blushed under such a look, and if he expected the same from her.

“then i find myself in good fortune that it does not suit you to do so.” 

he extends a hand to her, and so she does in return: hers gloved and palm-flat on his chest, atop the warm-place where a heart sits. it keeps him still and prevents him from forward movement. 

“wine cannot be taken with the tonic i am to make you. which seems,” maiden holds his glance, then drops her eyes down the height of him, a slow and deliberate observation of the body — a mimic of the thing he had already given her. “already a hindrance to be adjusted for.”

maiden drops her hand as casually as her gaze, turning from the prince to place the glass atop a wardrobe behind her.

“i watched your event,” there sits a moment where she might offer him praise for what she saw  —  and maiden watches it pass by as she opens her trunk, sparing a glance to reynaud before beginning to unpack. “you landed on your ankle, did you not? standing on it will do you no good —  and i shan’t be able to tend to tend it from there.”

[undyingpriestess]

STATUS: for @maidenhoods

DATE: flashback – summer season

TIME: late afternoon

LOCATION: pond at the outskirts of the city 

    It wasn’t often that Levana found herself in the outskirts of the city – time allowed for little else than catering to the king and his court. Then there was the matter of slowly – tediously – placing her chess pieces into the necessary positions. Accumulating power was a tedious task that required forethought and in order to ensure that she was protected, Levana needed to exhaust each and every possible outcome. For hours upon hours she would pour over tomes that documented those who had tried before her – and mentally, she took note of those who had succeeded and those who had failed. Her eyes would run over paragraphs once, twice, thrice. She couldn’t afford to retain these strategies in ink, so she read the passages until they were ingrained in her mind.

    So there was little time to travel as she wished and the few hours that it took to trek to the outskirts of the city were precious ones. 

    This meant that this journey that the Necromancer took was an important one. 

    And who was more important to see than the Maiden of Tyrolhm? 

    The sun hung low in the sky, like an overripe peach, warm and glowing and heavy. It warmed her skin, though she barely took note of it – in part because she was unable to and in part because of the details that had threaded themselves together, painting a rather intriguing picture of the woman she knew. She held the reins in her hand, the quiet shuffle of Norn’s hooves following behind her. The sound of water lapping against stone caught her ear and she glided towards it, eyes casting about for Maid. During the humid summer months, many enjoyed dipping into the ponds, lakes, and streams so she had assumed that Maid had slipped away to do the same. 

    Her eyes widened minutely as she took in the scene before her. Maid, bare as the day she was born, dipping into the waters of the pond. The water was adorned with the petals and leaves of summer flowers and – the warm, golden light of the sun shining in the woman’s hair, painting her skin in shades of muted gold. Patiently, she waits for Maid to notice her, head canting as she looked on, gaze casting over her. A living, breathing anomaly in a position of subservience. Why had the Undying God allowed such a tragedy? 

    Her voice is carried in the gentle breeze that sweeps through the little paradise, rippling the dark waters, stirring the leaves in the trees. “Is there a reason for hiding?” For hiding your gifts, your talents, your anomaly?

[maidenhoods]

at the spine-height of summer, where heat licks its rough cat tongue across the necks of every salted body and drips the tastings down their back, death comes to her in the form of a woman.

her ears are submerged below the waters, but she feels her approach the way a fir feels the earth shudder. a tremor runs through the roots of her, rattling leaves from their place and rumbling into the spaces between rings of life. when she lifts her head to acknowledge the arrival of levana morrigan, darkened and shadow-pinned as she is by the sun at her back, it stays fixed in place. she does not look away. 

decay has never frightened maiden. 

she stands half-raised in the waters, bare-breasted and with remnants of flowers stuck to her body like silk-coloured leeches, each bud and leaf desperate for her blood. she, too, is wearing signs of death — in her own colours. 

the necromancer asks for grounds of concealment, and maiden thinks it is as clear a question as it is a concealed one. her heart is a betrayer in her own body, but no truths pulse across her face. 

“the hare has a thousand tricks, but it cannot outrun a hawk.”

in the kingdom of the undying, life and death face one another with a great chess board between them. life makes its first return. 

“some perils necessitate a burrow, lady morrigan.”

[rpvisualosities]

[maidenhoods]

shadowrcith​:

It is something of a relief, when her touch disappears; they don’t like to be reminded of what it feels like, to have contact with others, lest they begin to want it, to crave it. Their isolation is a necessity, but that does not mean it is not a carefully kept thing.

     “I have been asking too much of you, Maiden,” they begin, a sort of sales pitch they have been mulling over in the silent moments of downtime between overheard conversations. Too much, at least, to come free: the last thing they need is to feel beholden, for their lingering existence, to anyone other than the King. Court is all about equitable relationships, a balancing act, understanding what others can get from you and what they will take in return. So far, Maiden has given time, and patience, and they have given nothing in return except the demands of their failing body. 

No, if they want to keep this up, she will eventually ask them for something. Anyone would be a fool not to. And they would be a fool not to offer something now, to ensure that it happens on their terms.

They glance around her chamber, at the notes on her desk and the water on her floor. They think of her work, the herbs and tinctures and everything else she does. Surely, some of those ingredients are rare. Surely, there are things she wishes she had that she cannot find, things they could find for her.

     “And asking nothing in return. But I think it’s only fair that I pay you what I owe, for your assistance. I want to offer my services to you—my abilities. Surely, there are far-flung places with rare herbs or flowers you might need. Should anything cross your mind, that you think would help, you need only ask and I can fetch them.” 

they speak, and she thinks this is another oddity of court life: to believe the repair of an otherwise doomed body should bare the name trade, and not duty. when she had been but a girl, there had been those that stumbled to their shop door who had no coin, and would have had no life to match had her mother not treated them then and there. often they returned, with fat hens or clever mares or as much wheat as the arm could carry, but other times they did not, and mother had only ever shrugged. we are not the undying, little sparrow. it is not our lot to decide who lives or dies. she said. we can only look undeath in the eye and say not today. not in this house.

it had never occurred to her to demand payment of wraith, who she had come to see not only as a strange but welcome companion, but an unusual challenge: how did one reverse the effects of magic itself? when she grew tired of pouring over tomes for hints of magi who stood in two schools, she looked for their answers — but books had none to give. they never seemed to these days.

“it is work i have done of free will, and would continue to.”

yet still, as wraith makes their proposition, she thinks of flowers in the shape of golden bells, whose nectar poured out sweet and thick if only you upturned it. she pictures the cones that fell from trees only found deep in the volkan forest, which after careful crushing could be added to any tincture to improve its effects. she thinks of the stories of the properties of kingweed, which grew only in the east, and beautiful boughs of pink swaying corr’s breath to the west. 

yes, there were a great many things she could use in this world.

“i am... loathe to ask for that which may demand another price of you in return, wraith.” she speaks haltingly, looking once more at their arm with a wariness as she leans back in her chair to observe them in full. “there may be things which would aid in my labours, but their value is not greater than your body.”

[maidenhoods]

❛ I am a demanding creature. ❜

“indeed you are not, my prince, though you believe yourself as such.” she holds her place before him still and straight — flora-taught as her body is, it bends but does not break. “i have known the toads and the hawks and the hares, i have met the wolves at the edge of the woods they rule and the black beetles in their dirt; i have made companion of the owls who become the watchers in darkness and begged forgiveness from the doe on my table. i have known all these beasts, and yet i have found none capable of what you are.” in the dark, the moonlight slants between them as a silver arrow. perhaps the moon, after all this, is but a hunter in disagreement. “even if you wish to be, prince, you are no creature — you are but a man.”

[unes23]

Frida Gustavsson for Pop Magazine

[calliopevalmont]

&. WHAT IT IS THAT WE KNOW LOCATION: king’s chambers TIME: the sixth of the tenth month AVAILABILITY: @maidenhoods​ TW: abusive tendencies

It should be no surprise after 26 years, this wrathful flavor of her husband’s fear-turned-anger, and yet, she still feels the start of a flinch when he hurls a plate at the floor, and it shakes her before she can deaden the action, drives a knife through the core of her very human tendencies, stopper up anything that could be anything remotely perceived as weak. This is not the first time he’s had an attempt on his life, and it is sure not to be the last, but perhaps it is always the most terrifying experience until it is not, and he always handles every single instance with less and less grace as more and more time passes.

He is not hollering, which is a small mercy, though Calliope is sure it’s more because he’s spent his advisor’s meeting thoroughly shouting and less that he does not want to; he is not hollering, but he is muttering so fervently that she cannot even parse a single word, does not even know where to begin to calm him down. There are snatches of words that she hears: burn and inferni but those could mean anything in any context, so she elects to take a ginger step forward and rest a gentle hand on his shoulder. If her hand should shake on its journey, no one is there to witness it.

He flinches away from her touch, whirling on her, catching her wrist in a vice grip, his fingers sinking into her wrist with a vengeance. She tugs, but there is no give. 

“I’m hurt there,” he hisses at her.

“I know,” she offers up, brow furrowing as she continues to try and pull her hand back. “That’s why we have sent for a healer, your majesty,” she says, trying not to snarl like a wounded beast.

There is a knock at the door and a herald of arrival, but neither of them look away from each other to glance at the door. “Come in,” she says finally, voice high and brittle, when his fingers have sunk the pain in bone deep. “Let go of me,” she hisses, and snatches her hand back, looking down at the covetous pink imprints his rage have left painted on her skin; his rage sinks down through her pores and sits deep in the cavity of her chest, wrapping tight around her heart, poisoning her, in turn, with anger. “His majesty has a scrape on his left arm,” she says, high and clear and deadened, averting her eyes from the healer who walks in. “Please see to it.”

[maidenhoods]

there is a pause between her announcement and admittance, and though the quiet can mean anything at all, it is rarely the herald of more than one thing. in her entry maiden looks from the king to his queen, and knows what it has to chosen to hitch to its soft-wheeled chariot this time.

“yes, your majesty.” she curtsies, eyes on the floor where there is no one to see the recognition in them, and takes to the king who sits like a beast wounded in fray. can you not be more gentle, he snarls as she cleanses the mark — a scrape, the queen had rightfully called it, for it was no more — and maiden murmurs an apology as she thinks of the red marbled flesh of those who had burned. she makes a fresh balm of the finest selection of roots and stems and remembers their cries, the pleas for relief or release as she was forced to tend to them with remnants and substitutes. she recalls the smell of newly-scorched skin and the pieces of it that came away with her cloth — some fragments larger than the scratch septimus bore on his bicep.

“the flesh will close by the time of your slumber, my king.”

there it is again, as she bows once more: silence. this time it carries with it dismissal. maiden returns to the table housing her wooden trunk, recapping vials with cork stoppers and wiping down mortar and pestles before returning them to proper place. it is quiet, easy work, and in it her mind takes a half-step to the side of the queen — though her gaze is too clever to make such a jump.

“his majesty’s humours have been disturbed by the high stress of the day’s events,” she speaks lowly with her eyes remaining downturned, fixed on the bottles she caps and replaces in the large kit. “if my queen might find it prudent... i could craft a mixture to offer the king some peace. such things may be made tasteless and without odour, so it might be added to his wine without causing further worry.” her eyes raise to the queen, lovely and fair as she stood — how the image of her, calm at the jaws of hell, incited a thing not unlike fealty. how she looks for a sign of comprehension.

do you understand?

“for his betterment.”

for yours.

[francisdaumantas]

when: 6th of the 10th month, shortly after fiery man makes his appearance where: tourney grounds closed to: @maidenhoods

Help them. Even in the midst of the tournament’s chaos, Francis can still hear the voice of Undeath. Sounds of yelling and commotion from the stands dull and deafen around their ears, leaving only the words of the Undying, as clear now as they were on the very first day Francis heard them: help them.

With newfound purpose, Francis rises. Behind them, King Septimus and his court are being brought hastily to safety, Saif holding steadfastly to the sword in their hand. In front of them, just across the muddied field, the victims are already being carted off. Burns leave their faces unrecognizable, but their anguish is as clear as day. 

Help them.

Francis’ eyes find Triss in the crowd, and they take off toward her, stepping between stairs and people alike until they reach her side. They do not know one another well, but familiarity hardly matters now. She is a healer; she can help.

“The victims,” Francis says in lieu of a greeting, gesturing across the field. Their voice is uneven, but determined yet. “Will you help me help them?”

[maidenhoods]

she sees them as a trout swimming upstream, fighting the rapids of people wearing terror and chaos like white-foam: strength is needed merely to stand still in the surge, and they do not budge. maiden knows what they will ask of her before the call can rise over the fleeing people.

she jolts to her station, the wooden cabin rocking at the impact of her body as she begins loading the trunk with all herbs and mixtures laid out across the table, the clatter of glass vials ringing harsh and loud. 

“lead me to them,” the trunk is heavy in her hand and battering against her thigh as she runs to francis, but there is no time to adjust for a more comfortable position. there is a voice in her head, but it is more familiar than the undying god: her mother. hullbell for pain, ravensmaw for soothing the nerves and a salve of mashed windflower stem for the skin —

“i do not bring my full kit with me —” panic does not fully embroider itself into the announcement, but it’s thread weaves through maiden all the same, shot from one end of her to the other as if by arrow till it hits a golden bell of knowledge, setting it ringing. what you need is not in your balms and salves, child. “i was prepared only for the tourney —”

[maidenhoods]

💔

—  a memory that leaves them feeling lonely.

the day he arrives, it is raining.

no. that is not quite right.

the day he arrives, he brings the rain with him. she is not meant to open the door to customers when mother is in town, but she does not have to. he shoulders it open as she returns from the forest edge with a cradle of flowers. he lays upon her wooden dining table like a stuck pig, blood and rainwater dressing him at the sides. what are you doing, she asks. you are the healer, he answers. i am waiting for you to fucking do something. she is not here. i am her daughter. then you are the healer’s daughter. you have learned something. do it, or i will die. so she sutures and wraps and balms, and in time he is pulled from the undying god’s call. i am unable to travel in this state — i require a bed. this is no inn. and yet it will do. so he stays, and the rain goes on. in the morning he puts coin on the table and a name in the fold and maiden asks for payment higher than a name. he says he’s a bounty hunter, and she interprets that to mean i slay inferni, because it always does. you must not be a very good one, for i’ve heard no stories of you. ( even in the grasslands, in the nothingness between the volkan forest and the farmlands, the tales of the hunters find them. ) and he answers nothing worth knowing about ever has a song. so she lets him stay another night to hear a story without lyrics. and then another. on the fourth day, when wounds have begun to scar and the skies clear, he brings in a deer caught at the edge of a brush and calls it compensation for the roof and the company. she smiles. that night they drink sour wine from his flagon and begin to look at one another a little too long, and — well. you know how it goes. sometimes a maiden is a woman, too. it is not so long, the time they have together. mother’s trips last no longer than a fortnight, and the gnarled hand he has in his rucksack as proof of a job’s completion will be no more than ash if he waits any longer. but the nights are warm and sweet and as tangled as raw pink intestines. on one eve where she’s laid upon the mattress and the sun in her chest begins to sink below her hips as he presses down upon her, he pins her wrists above her head so the glittering cold that shoots out of her fingertips makes stalactites against the cabin wall and not through his skull. in the morning, sunlight pours through the windows and refracts of a thousand ice crystals, casting rainbows before they melt. they laugh and kiss in the puddles of what was once sharp and dangerous. it is not so long, the time they have together, but i have already told you that. at the crest of a fortnight she lays upon his chest and counts the scars from stories they have yet to speak, though she knows what they mean all the same. the rain came with him, and he brings the sunlight too. you could come with me, he says. it is not an easy life, but no worse than hiding here. he does not say: you could love me. she answers: i cannot. she does not answer: i already do. they part in the meadows, with heads of bluebells swaying about her ankles. they lower their faces to the dirt in mourning as she kisses him goodbye. he puts a piece of stamped metal in her hand and does not look back.  she parcels out his name like ripped pieces of bread when she arrives at castle tyrholm too-many moons later, placing it in the hands of servants and citizens of lowtown all the same. it is against her nature to hope for a repetition of the past, but sometimes stars fall, and that is not in their nature either.  there are no answer for her, no matter what meals she makes of his description. so she lies awake some night, pouring over the memory of him and an end she will never know, hungry. lonely. 

[maidenhoods]

👀 fmk: marceline, wraith, tasmin

“kill? well that’s quite the antithesis of my work, but given they are the only one to expose themselves to the possibility of it, i shall have to say wraith. i could offer tasmin none of what she seeks, and yet perhaps i could pacify her with the wonders of a garden for a lifetimes... yes, i think we might do just fine. and marceline — well. she carries a sword bigger than men double her size. such things interest me.”

[maidenhoods]

👀 three favorite people at the palace?

“they are strange days when not filled with tasmin or marceline — perhaps feivel or armel to round out the third, though the latter finds quite the inconvenient times to visit.”

[ofhotheads-blog]

Send my muse “👀 + a question” and they’ll have to answer with 100% honesty.

No deleting questions, either!

[meraudazenari]

rp-meme-glaceon​:

Peer into my muse’s memories

❤️- A happy memory that makes them smile

💙- A sad memory that makes them cry

💛- A memory that makes them feel angry

💚- A memory that makes them feel guilty

💜- A memory about one of their loved ones, happy or sad

💔- A memory that leaves them feeling lonely

❣- A memory that leaves them laughing

💕- A memory about their significant other

💞- A memory about their children

💓- A memory about their friends

💗- A memory about a good deed they did

💖- A memory that made them feel special

💝- A memory that made them feel loved

💘- A memory that gets their heart pounding

💟- Wildcard!!!

[miracle-vine]

Her collarbones like wings spread from the base of her throat to the ends of her shoulders. A bird held down by skin.

The God of Small Things (Arundhati Roy)

[persephonememes]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 /  𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠.

❛ You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast. ❜

❛ You are going to break your promise. ❜

❛ I understand. ❜

❛ And I hold my hands over the ears of my heart, so that I will not hate you. ❜

❛ Oh, I will be cruel to you. ❜

❛ It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. ❜

❛ But you understand, don’t you? ❜

❛ I am a demanding creature. ❜

❛ I am selfish and cruel and extremely unreasonable. ❜

❛ For you alone I will be weak. ❜

❛ I do not tolerate a world emptied of you. ❜

❛ In the dark, I have pored over the loss of you like pale gold. ❜

❛ I have looked for your face in the patterns of the ice. ❜

❛ I moved the earth and the water for you. ❜

❛ Because my magic is as strong as an arm. ❜

❛ Magic does that. It wastes you away. ❜

❛ Magic does that. It wastes you away. Once it grips you by the ear, the real world gets quieter and quieter, until you can hardly hear it at all. ❜

❛ You will always run away with her. ❜

❛ You will always lose her. ❜

❛ You will always be a fool. ❜

❛ War is not for winning. ❜

❛ But her heart was so cold that she could hold ice in her mouth and it would never melt. ❜

❛ You look like a winter night. ❜

❛ But if you must be clever, then be clever. ❜

❛ Be brave. ❜

❛ Sleep with fists closed and shoot straight. ❜

❛ She is so stubborn, her heart has an argument with her head every time it wants to beat. ❜

❛ How I adore you. ❜

❛ Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me. ❜

❛ Oh, quit that. ❜

❛ In his own country, death can be kind. ❜

❛ Bad luck relies on absolutely perfect timing. ❜

❛ Someone ought to write a novel about me. ❜

❛ I savor bitterness - it is born of experience. It is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ❜

❛ What is the world but a boxing ring where fools and devils put up their fists? ❜

❛ After love, no one is what they were before. ❜

❛ In the space of one heartbeat to another I loved you and I was lost to you. ❜

❛ No one is now what they were before the war. There’s just no getting any of it back. ❜

❛ How long your hair has grown. You could strangle a man in it. ❜

❛ I have survived, but I have not been spared. ❜

❛ After all, when all else is gone, you may still have bitterness in abundance. ❜

❛ I’ve a devil of a habit for being right. ❜

❛ Everyone is a criminal! ❜

❛ Naturally, then, humans fall into three categories: the criminal, the not-yet-criminal, and the not-yet-caught. ❜

❛ Forests have secrets. ❜

❛ We are better at this than you are. ❜

❛ We can hold two terrible ideas at once in our hearts. ❜

❛ It’s not so bad, my darling. ❜

❛ I look at you and it is like my throat being cut. ❜

❛ Do you think I am a fool? ❜

❛ Did you never think, even once, that I loved lipstick and rouge for more than their color alone? ❜

❛ I still want to kiss you. ❜

❛ I hate it here. ❜

❛ He’ll burn you down like wax if you let him. ❜

❛ Did I not come to you on my knees with a kingdom in my hand? ❜

❛ I am not a little girl anymore, dazzled by your magic. It is my magic, now, too. ❜

❛ My heart is being cut in two. I cannot bear it. ❜

❛ Nothing ever truly dies. ❜

[leselfov]

King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017) 

[maidenhoods]

shadowrcith​:

They can count on one hand the number of people who touch them—one hand, missing fingers and all: two. The Princess, who is incorrigible in all things, and Maiden herself, who must, if she’s ever to be any help to them at all. The number of people they have touched, intentionally, is even lower; there is no need for it when they lurk in the shadows, no space for it when they move about the castle. So when they place their hand over her own on their arm, the intentionality of it sends a sign, wordless and simple: you don’t have to. There was no immediate wound to fix, no strange swirl of smoke beneath their skin to examine, not at the moment.

     “All here, for now,” they say as they wait for her hand to still. No missing pieces, this time, no smoke furled up in the shape of a body where a body ought to be. “At least as far as I”m aware.” 

Of course, that wouldn’t be the case for long. At least some part of them was nearly aways more smoke than skin these days, penned into the shape of them by their robes and their mask and whatever magic animated the rest of them. 

     “Though I don’t know how long that will last. No, I wanted to speak with you, if you have a minute. Something occurred to me, just now, and I wondered if it might help.” 

maiden had been taught the language of pollen earlier than that of words, and the dialect of the body had come not far after — so close together that there was barely any room between them to breath. so when wraith places their hand upon her own, she only needs the brush of their fingers to understand the conversation: this is not what is needed.

and maiden, after all, knows the intensity of touch. 

“good,” she says simply, and makes a perfunctory job of re-tucking their cloth with her gloves hands until it does not hang loose, unwilling to leave disorder in her wake if it was not in the sanctuary of the greenhouse. she stands then, moving to the desk to pull out a chair of meager wooden bones and seating herself in the one across from it. 

“please,” she gestures to the open seat, archimedes dropping from the windowsill to land on the table. he flutters across the wet oak, observing them from beside maiden. “let us talk. i am eager to hear of your thoughts.”