GANYMEDE ⋅𖥔⋅ 29, W ⋅𖥔⋅ SCIENCE
You are a child that was dreamed, an epitome of prestige, eminence, and flawlessness. For as long as you have lived, there has never been a moment that you haven’t known of your own complete perfection. Engineered from a pair of stars and thrust into a constellation of esteem, it was your very destiny to rise above mankind itself and show them how they could live. With nay a flaw within your entire blessed being, you grew with no expectation set upon your dainty shoulders, for there could be no expectations for someone who had already exceeded them all by the time they were born.
Arrogance shines on your skin the way sweat should, emboldened by the hubris you have wielded on your tongue from the moment you realized you were a gift to the people around you. You often stand watch from your ivory tower, peering at the beings below, counting the little white sheep as they walk past with their flawed psyches and troubled existences. You turn to your siblings and say, “What a pity,” while tittering to yourself over your prized existence. It is hard to know the humility of men when you float so high above them, knowing that you could offer the best prize in all of the world and yet, no one would come close to the podium you stand on.
The common query that surrounds you, however, is not of your own perfection, but of your own unraveling. They ask you how you live in your tower, if you bathe in your own blood and feast on your own rot. From their slums far beneath your reach of prized ambrosia and nectar, they want to know if you can see the bruises on your knees and the shattered glass around your greatness, but you are too far above them, and you choose not to hear them. You propose to bring yourself into the new age, to welcome a new generation created after their most perfect specimen, and as the voices grow louder, you drown them out with your own songs and make friends with the perfect girl in the mirror.
DYNAMICS
HALIMEDE ⋅𖥔⋅ IN MY CORNER OF THE WORLD, KILLING IS A LOVE LANGUAGE
AS IT GOES, YOU HAVE NEVER KNOWN A LIFE WITHOUT HIM. For as long as you have been alive, he has always been there with you; you eat together, you learn together, you sit together, you mourn together. Siblinghood is the only sort of friendship you have the pleasure of knowing—slow and lifelong and always nagging at you no matter what you do. Of all your siblings, he is the only one to not grow starry-eyed at your self-proclaimed excellence, something that makes you as annoyed as it does angry. In retaliation, you have spun webs and lies of his conquests and tales, and though some people may suspect it means you want his golden seat, you know you only do it because he is your brother. And as his youngest sister, it is your sole duty to ensure that he never gets a chance to breathe.
FENRIR ⋅𖥔⋅ THE FOREST IS FULL OF ABANDONED MONSTERS THAT I LOVE
PERFECTION IS HARD TO COME BY, BUT EVEN RARER IS YOUR ADORATION. Who is there to look up to when you are the epitome of flawlessness? For a short while, the answer was FENRIR; your brother’s friend, another heir, carved from a skeleton of complete precision—it only made sense. You viewed yourselves as two of the same kind, perfect proteges thrust into a world that needed saving, but you learned quickly that they were not the perfect specimen you believed them to be. It became clear to you, after their failure and leaving, that you were the only perfect thing in the city. It was something of a wake-up call, a realization that not everyone could handle the gift of perfection. Since their leaving, you have yet to look up to anyone at all, since you’ve learned the hard way that you are the only one worth adoring.
ATLAS ⋅𖥔⋅ THERE ARE TIMES / I WOULD ADD MYSELF TO THAT NIGHT SKY, EERIE AND UNTOUCHED
THEIR NAME BRINGS A GIGGLE TO YOUR LIPS, THEIR FAMILY NAME A THREAD IN THE WOVEN TAPESTRY OF YOUR HOUSE. Empathy is not something you possess much of, traded for intellect or something other by a father who wished for you to be great. Sometimes, you sit by their side and work together in complete silence. You watch them work themselves to death in search of something you could hold the cure for in your veins, in your bones, in your very being—but you don’t lift a finger to help. There are bigger plans for the future in your eyes, one that does not involve those who are lesser made with poor fates woven into their genetics, and though you may find it in yourself to admire their work ethic, you fail to find the pity and empathy to care much for their future.
TAKEN BY VERA ⋅𖥔⋅ YUMI LAMBERT
