(noun) A word with Latin roots, virago is defined as a strong, courageous woman with a warlike heart; she is a woman who portrays exemplary and heroic qualities. (via wordsnquotes)
Be careful of that girl,
Thereâs a fire burning behind her eyes.
She makes kingdoms fall,
and monsters wish theyâd never been born.
Sheâs not just a warriorâshe is a dragon.
And she is not afraid
to burn your heaven to the ground.
death would be kinder than her touch // k.s. (via worthystevie)
There are some things which might be better to be in-between like boys and girls because to be a girl seems like solace and to be a boy comes with freedom. To be neither is what he doesnât understand, but thatâs another type of in-between entirely, and those never come easy.
But in his opinion, there are many things which arenât things to waver between. He believes sides should nearly always be chosen because itâs better to be something and be told youâre wrong rather than nothing and lose the things both offer. Itâs the lawful good in him, he thinks. Or maybe heâs just greedy.
To be all the wonderful things this world has to offer- to be of the sea, of the trees, of space and stars- to wish for the gold-soul girl with the red written past or the star-fall boy with galaxies as his wings- to hold someone soft and have them believe youâre a haven or to lean against someone solid and listen to their eyes- is it a sin? An impossibility? Sides⊠heâs never sure how to choose. Thereâs what heâs supposed to and what he canât, but he guesses it doesnât matter because somewhere out there thereâs a girl whoâs him living his other life.
He hopes the best for her.
He will find a girl to hold on his lap as the sun sets and the moon rises and the movie plays in the foreground. He will love her with all his listening and hope and fight he can muster, and he will be the solid, strong one for her someday somewhere. He will card his hand through his hair and smile because his hair is short and society doesnât care if it is because thatâs how it should be. He will call his friends by their last names and dip girls at dances and marry well. He will grow old and teach at a university as the fascinating, quirky, old professor.
He doesnât cry because thereâs a girl living his other life somewhere far but close.
She knows.
She will braid her hair and hug her small friends tight. She will let her friends do her makeup and let herself smile when they say sheâs beautiful. She will ask for pink in her braces and cry during movies. She will let the boy with the big frame glasses ask her out to that little restaurant down from the school and be grateful when he pulls out her chair. She will laugh over boys and rate jawlines with her friends. She will marry well, and her and her husband will be a team none can take down.
She does cry, but not for this because thereâs a boy living her other life somewhere far but close.
He will be the confidence and the wings. She will be the safety and the grounding.
Itâs alright.
They may not hold the same peopleâs hands or choose the same paths on the road called Life, but a soul split in two knows things about themself no one else does and can be content to watch the same stars at night. They will be happy and right because together they fulfill what one cannot, and isnât that the sole purpose of being one in two?
They both know itâs not.
But they write the answers to their own questions with stories no one reads. It will be enough for too long nights and empty evenings until memories of each other are buried beneath a layer of dust, and they will be like the world says to be.
They say there's one thing to remember when it comes to the devils - that they always lie. It's the only truth they ever tell me and the only one they ever tell themselves. I find it sad when they never learn there's a sort of truth in any absolute.
It's spring when you come; a broad shouldered girl in a black turtleneck with eyes whose whites flash black in the most peculiar way. You sit on the bench in front of my little floristâs shop with Danteâs Inferno in your hand which isn't the best book to hide behind considering what you are, but even when you tell me that you didn't know, I don't believe you. I think you meant for me to know.
(It hasn't taken me long to figure out what you are.)
It's the too black eyes and the too sharp teeth and the unblinking gaze you think I don't notice, but while those give me sentences the scarves you wear like you're always cold, the hunch in your shoulders as if you're trying to hide and the weight of the world in your voice when you speak give me pages. I think that soon enough I'll have a book.
(The Devil on My Doorstep would be what I call it.)
It's summer when you shake off your coat and step for the first time into my shop. It's the first time you speak directly to me, and when you do it's to ask a question. You ask me for camellias with fidgeting, scarred hands and a new set to your shoulders, but when I try to hand them to you, you step back with wide eyes and tense jaw. I hesitate; you waver.
(You ask for camellias on the day I have only pink. They mean longing, and I wonder if you know.)
You tug on your scarf, the warm brown of your skin a clear contrast to the fading blue fabric, and ask me if it's odd to ask me to keep them for myself to enjoy. I say no, it isn't, and when you smile with the tips of too sharp, too bright teeth peeking out from your lips, I begin to fall in love.
(They call me crazy. I say they're right.)
It's fall when you finally take a bouquet of daisies into your hands. When I ask you why you're wearing gloves, you say you're allergic, but I know that isn't true because you tell me things in questions when you really want me to know. I know it's because questions aren't lies or truths. But I don't push. Not even when you duck your head and flush as if you want to ask me something you haven't. I hope it's what I think it is, but I don't let myself hope.
(That's a lie. It's in my nature to hope.)
I don't have to pretend to not hope for long. It's the day after that you ask me to dinner, and you're still in gloves when you buy the second bouquet you really touch. The daffodils from yesterday and the daisies from today are both present at dinner, and it's lovely. Like you. I learn that devils can cook, and it's easier now to hear in questions. I know you're grateful even if it's hard to phrase it right for you. I'm more grateful even if it's hard for me to say it aloud.
(You give the daffodils for the sun shining brighter with you and daisies for never telling. I give a fern for magic and forsythia for anticipation.)
It's winter when you disappear, and the world is white and grey and cold. I tell myself that's why you've left. It's because it's too cold for you, and youâve just gone to hibernate in the warmth of Hell. I say that you forgot to tell me because you were so tired, and it's alright because I and the flowers will be ready for your gloved hands when you return.
(I know I'm lying to myself.)
When I catch you bleeding silver with silver wings and silver horns and silver in your eyes where I thought was brown, you try to leave, but I tell you to stay because I knew, I know, and I love you anyways. I press the crocus I'd clutched in my hands in your ungloved hands. It wilts, and you shake, but I hold you, and say in a cloud of black winged, black horned devils you'd be the silver lining. You laugh. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
(The crocus stands for the coming spring.)
You ask me if I ever wonder why you always speak in inquiries, and I say I don't because I know how it is for you. You ask me if I resent you for it, and I say I don't because I prefer it to be like this instead of the mix of lies and truths humans give to each other. You ask me why I stay, and I ask you the same in return.
You held up one gloved hand and stared, your eyebrows raised in question, âI'm sorry, buddy, but what the heck?â
The boy clenched his fists at his sides and took one, supposedly menacing step forward, âYou have no idea what you're up against.â
Of all the things you'd expected to meet on your path to world domination, little boys telling you, one of the greatest super villains of all time, that your death would be his arising had not been one of them. You flicked up your shades, the live mini bats along the edges flapping in protest. You had a reputation to maintain, after all.
âSooo⊠is that a Captain America shirt you're wearing?â You weren't about to let the kid murder you because firstly, that would be messy and secondly, you figured humoring him with a bit of conversation was the least you could do. Your schedule was somewhat less packed than usual since well, ransacking the Louvre could wait until after you checked out the Croatian coast. On top of a reputation, you still had personal happiness to maintain - something many villains forgot about in their grandiose, nefarious exploits. Anyways, it wasn't a mistake you were about to make.
âNo!â He tugged at the edges of his shirt, the very obvious Captain America shield stretching as he tugged, âIt's mine now!â
Your eyebrows shot all the way up to your hairline, âSo are you trying to defeat me to prove yourself? You know the Avengers are fake, right? The real superheroes are way less attractive.â Damn shame, they were, too. You would totally be banging Cap otherwise. Not that the kid needed to know that. You did have some days when you had a few drops of decency.
âNo,â He scoffed much too naturally for an seven-or-so-year-old boy. Definitely more of an Ironman type, you decided, âI don't need to prove anything to anyone! Your death is my arising because I'm better, and your power will feed me! I work for no one! I bow to no one! It's all mine!â
âDang,â You waved a hand and two chairs materialized behind you and the boy. You did have some manners. You spun yours around and sat on it backwards, your coat tails whipping about in the breeze that always followed you, âSit, kid. Tell me what's up.â
He paused for a moment as if considering his options. But unsurprisingly - you knew what he'd pick - he sat, legs crossed one over the other and hanging high above the ground, âWhat will you give me in return?â
âMy attention,â You responded smoothly, knowing advice was often shunned by children like him. You wouldn't bore him with your adult talk since anything else besides generalized advice like ignoring your parents and tossing memes at useless minions, all you could think of was likely secrets of the trade, and those were only secrets if you kept them.
Again, he paused, but then his story came flooding out, and you listened with half-feigned, half-genuine interest. It was amusing to listen to the fantasies of mundane little mortals like him. You didn't mind.
When he finished, you leapt up from your chair and spun it into oblivion, grinning at the boy, âGreat, buddy. You'll do well in life if you keep people from stepping all over you like that, but all that talking probably has you tired. What do you say we go get ice cream?â And forget about my death being your arising, you thought to yourself.
He slid off the chair, and you whisked it away before adjusting your coat. He watched you expectantly.
âWell,â you said, âShall we be off?â
He nodded, and you breathed a sigh of relief. You just wondered why adults couldn't be so simple.
âNo, no, it totally would. That way we donât cause the apocalypse, but we still hold hands and hug and tell each other nice things and hold each other when weâre sad and - â
âMaeve,â Sena slips her arms from around her waist and pushes her up from her lap, the skin along her forearms shimmering in its telltale way, âDo you really believe thatâs a plausible solution?â
Maeve slumps at the question and turns to face her. Her braid sweeps behind, and in that second, the silence is heavier than the weight of the mountains above their heads. She frowns, and the light drips to black in her dark eyes, âSo youâll go? Youâll leave just like that?â
Sena sighs, and for a moment, she sees the world as it is to the rest of its inhabitants; wood table, granite countertops, cream colored carpet and a patchwork of painted stars covering the walls, the ceilings. And Maeve. Always Maeve.
(Maeve with her galaxy mind and sunspot soul. Maeve with her hope. Maeve with her dreams. Maeve with the impossible resilience mortals impossibly have. Maeve who understands but refuses to believe.)
âWhy?â
(How many times has she heard that very same question?
âWhy?â her mother had demanded.
âWhy?â her brother had whispered.
âWhy?â the wind had screamed.)
âWhy?â Why. WhyâŠ
She should know.
(Her mother hadnât, and she was the Earth. Her brother hadnât, and he was a mountain. The wind hadnât, and she was her friend. She didnât. She didn't⊠Not really. But she has to. For Maeve. Always Maeve.)
Sena sighs again, and it sounds like punctured lungs and feels like slipping fingers.
âWe canât.â
(The words cut like a double edged sword. First, as she speaks them. Second, as Maeve hears them.)
Maeve stutters. She can feel it.
âItâs already begun. You know - â
(They say starting is hard, but continuing is harder.)
âThings like me donât belong with mortals like you. It would tear this world apart.â
âI know.â
Sheâs not sure when it happened, but sheâs curling arms around Maeveâs shoulders, and sheâs close. Her head is on her shoulder, and her arms are pulled up through her arms and gripping fabric on her cloak.
âBut Iâll find you. Iâm friends with the rivers.â
(Itâs a promise. With Maeve itâs always a promise.)
âIâll find you, and weâll sit by the river and skip stones and braid each otherâs hair and right when the sun is setting and the sky is like fire, Iâll kiss you, and itâll be okay.â
Maeveâs grip is stronger, but her words are whispers.
(Theyâre always whispers before Sena leaves like she always does. Her brother whispered. The wind whispered. Maeve whispers. Only with her brother it was like pulling up wet blankets. With the wind it was like ice to metal. With Maeve itâs promises wrapped up in feeling.)
Sena holds her tighter.
âIâll find a way to live forever. Weâll build a house out of river stones beneath a giant tree. Itâll be small, but youâll find us jewels, and Iâll bring magic. Weâll drink wine by the fire in teacups and hold hands and tell stories.â
Sheâs shimmering again.
(Time is almost up.)
âAnd if you want, weâll eat cake with our hands.â
(Soon enough these will be moments lost forever to Time.)
âWhen youâre tired we can go up to bed and kiss each other goodnight and stargaze until our eyes are closing because our roof will be the heavens - the stars. Real stars. Nothing like the ones we have now.â
(Sena pities Time sheâs decided. Heâs far too greedy.)
âAnd then Iâll sing you to sleep.â
Her form is fading, and the world shifts between Maeve and Beyond.
(Time again. Itâs Time.)
âAnd itâll be okay.â
(Sheâs a golem. A spirit. An entity far from mortal. She knows what she can never have.)
But she lies. She says what she wants rather than what she believes.
âI know.â
And then itâs Beyond, and Sena sinks back to the earth from whence she came, Maeve, the last thing she truly sees in the mortal way.
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