#faravaldyr

[witcheressed-archive-blog]

         she considers her approach to be a mildly               stealthy one, though she has little doubt                that the other man can sense her movements.               or simply hear them coming. but, hopefully, he’d               hear them a bit too late. with a careful aim, and a               hand full of neatly-packed snow,               she positions her arm back.

                                  three...two...one...

                and there it goes, right at his head. 

[vriehedd-blog]

There is a god in your bed. There is a god in your bed, and he does not fit the songs and the stories spun of deities who raise oceans at the flick of a wrist or rain fire with but a snap of impatient fingers. He is not graceful nor is he delicate, battle bred with the scars to prove it and you half expect to find your fingers sporting burns when tentative fingers reach out to touch, because you know men like him are never born, but forged from dying suns and men like you are all too quick to be set aflame.

There is a god in your bed, and he does not reduce you to ashes but oh, do you wish he had when you feel the discordant screams of a universe beneath his chest; all the people he has not saved, all the people he will die trying to, and you suddenly remember why there are warnings against mortals falling in love with beings greater than they.  There is a god in your bed, and there shouldn’t be. There are people and places who need him more than you, deserve him more than you, and you have never known selfishness but it does not stop the way your lips move to shape a silent ‘ stay ’, the way your fingers tremble as they press more firmly against age-old scars with unspoken promise of sacrifice.

For him, you’d kneel by an altar.  For him you’d stand on the front lines of war. You can’t remember the last time you prayed and the names of deities lay as ashes upon your tongue, but there is a god in your bed tonight, and he will be there again tomorrow and in the nights to follow and for a moment you think that maybe you never lost your faith at all – just a person worth placing it in.

[semiaqun]

          “ They got in my way. ”

     Only the smallest fraction of truth could be found in those words, that he would even      be willing to give. The Witch Hunters had been a bother, they were noisy and disruptive,      but they didn’t truly bother him any. It was Layne who had run into the man’s shoulder,      nerves frayed just from the sight of them, a good enough reason to be called out for      it. His response had been exaggerated, spectacularly so as he reached for a blade.      The swords on his backs remained sheathed as a dagger was slipped from his hip,      using fluid movements to strike at the men’s throats. Once one hit the ground, the      rest came after him, being dealt with in the same way.

     Bodies surrounded the witcher as he pulled out a cloth, wiping down the blade before      depositing it back into its scabbard. The cloth was kept out as he wiped the blood      from his medallion, gaze drifting to the White Wolf before him.

             “ They were wastin’ their lives in the first place. ”

                        { &// faravaldyr }

[vriehedd-blog]

i.

He’s going to build a graveyard inside of you & you are going to let him.  ii. He is a pyre, burning away what once was &  creating what should have been.      He tells you he was born for war & destruction; you believe him, you already know.  ( Destroy me ) you think;        you have never  been afraid of storms.  iii. He smells of blood & ash;     you burn when he kisses you,     taste swallowed battle cries upon his tongue.   There is nothing soft about him, jagged edges  and sharp corners ripping you open   little by little       he’s going   to tear away what once was, and make room for something better. iv.  There’s   no more neutrality left within you, he has torn it out, thrown it away.

You are not a soldier,  you do not like the  front  lines or the scent of copper in the air,     but he  looks at you, a battlefield reflected on  his face and hope lingering in     the depths of his irises  and you pick up your swords.  v.  He’s going           to build a utopia  inside of you & you are going to let him. 

[vriehedd-blog]

                       i. 

IT IS WRITTEN IN HIS SEMBLANCE, in staccato suspires and rigid bones: arms bar plated breast but also wintry soul; even 'neath the crepuscular shroud of twilight he cannot afford to shed his warring disposition. ( what is it like to sleep, bereft of turmoil and the fear that you would wake with sullied skin, dagger through that mire you clep’st a heart?  what is it like to exist in one stalwart domicile, without the need to flee? ) taut jaw sits idle; teeth gnaw on nought but their own words, yet even still it is clear he lingers in disquietude. he is a tempest made flesh, even with the guise of slumber, such is said in sooth. ( is it truly sleeping together if there is no together  about it? ) 

                        ii. 

HE HAS BUILT A CITY OF GRAVESTONES, a thousand waterfalls of blood and carnage, and yet you bear him at thy side as though the stains upon his hands had been undone, unmade, some how, by neptune’s ebbing tide.                      that man is iconoclast, and none can deny it: the penal fire he sent unto a hundred men signify his very guilt, but whilst the moon and stars illuminate a pallid face, he does not seem so vicious. ( was the fearsome woodland fox caught snoring, just then? )

                       iii.

YOU FIND HEAVEN IN THE SILENCE, in the gentle rise and fall of cloth-claimed skin, in the brevity of respite, rescinding the enmity which runs through his veins and through his lungs. TERRORIST, WHORESON, BANDIT, MURDERER all sobriquets and damnations fade away when gnashing bones meet not the steel of swords, when tousled hair is splayed across alabaster sheets, and armour hath kissed the ground with reluctant thud.          ( when is a monster not a monster? )

                       iv. 

IT IS A HUMBLE OFFERING, AT FIRST ( though humility had never been a strong suit ); the ghost of a kiss rests on your lip and yet  familiarity still dances with the wind. he claims that his bones have been worn brittle from the weight of war, that all the marrow, all the kindness all the good, has been burned in a pyre of hatred, and that what rests within him now is but an ashen wisp. but you have felt his temperate touch, beheld fumbling fingers beneath cloistering blanket, and been graced by somnolent breath ‘gainst the nape of thy neck. there might have been a tenderness still, vestigial and sublime. 

                              wipe the sleep from your eyes.                                 faravaldyr