Well it isn't really good because I don't have that affinity with languages, plus my brain seems to have jammed when it comes to the actual idea generation itself, but well, thank you for giving me the motivation to open the stupid doc and finish it. This is dedicated to you, my partner in procrastination XD
Happy 19th birthday, dear.
Death, destruction, darkness.
Giulietta Simone del Viscontie fled through all three of the above as ordered. The del Viscontie family was ruined; nothing was left of the estate that she once called home, save for the attackers who pursued her even now.
For all that they called her a country bumpkin, Giulietta had never strayed past these walls unaccompanied. Now that she was finally out there, alone, her slipper-clad feet knew not of the path that she should take to safety, only the feel of the rough, painful road that her soles were pounding upon, illuminated by the light of raging fires that consumed what little remained.
There were many things Giulietta regretted upon finding herself backing up at the edge of a cliff. For reasons unknown to her, she finds the one regret that consumes her head is that she never learned to make her own way about town.
Still, the one that consumes her heart while she falls into the water is that she would never be the salvation of her family, and she would never be the bride of the man she had so admired in her younger days.
The men who served the future queen waited until her last scream faded into the night air before they set off on the road to Romana, where a most lavish wedding ceremony would welcome them.
And in Romana, Alessandro I would ascend the altar with his bride. Roberia Maria della Firenza was no doubt a beautiful and accomplished songstress, the latter a quality that he could not compromise on. In short, she would be a queen that he could learn to love. He would know nothing of the other songstress that sank beneath the unforgiving waves, the one that he had yet to meet before her untimely demise.
--And for the first time, “she” eluded “his” grasp.
It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was impossible.
It was a castle of coral, a truly perfect creation of soft azure and blazing red and tentative pink. It stood solid in the cold sea, not at all wavering, unlike the transient, snuffed-out existences that resided within its walls.
Unlike the woman who knelt outside, her hair tossed by the waves, giving her the appearance of someone wild.
Or perhaps someone in despair, for her hands clutched each other over her chest, and her voice sang wordless bubbles in the deep sea. Her eyes were shut, but her expression was that of one weeping, crying tears that dissolved invisible into the water.
Even if you were to grow discomfited watching her life bubble out of her open (screaming) mouth from far away, you would soon come to realise she cannot die. That her lungs would never fill with water, her heart would never cease to beat. That she would forever be lamenting outside the castle of coral, never allowed inside.
The moment her eyes open is the moment she admits defeat.
--And for the second time, “he” is out of “her” reach.
In a dingy attic far removed from the cold sea, a girl jerks awake while drenched in sweat. She’s been half-dreaming of the castle again, but the mother… who is the mother waiting for tonight? Her face is far less lined and weary than she remembers. An odd modification, but not unwelcome. Although now that she’s awake, it’ll be a long time before sleep approaches again.
An azure parting song, a crimson bloodstained kiss, a final white arrow.
Even if the beast were to take all of her lover, she could see nothing but him. Not those claws, those fangs, those bloodthirsty eyes, but the hands she held, the lips she kissed, the gentle eyes she once gazed deep into on a summer night.
The bow lies cold in her left hand, the arrow heavy in her right. It will be fine, he promised. By your beloved hands, he requested.
“It will be fine,” she whispers soundlessly to herself.
The arrow fits smoothly in the bow, and with a tug, a release, it is gone, its silver head imbedding itself into the monstrous chest. And another, and another, until she can no longer see where those arrows are going, because there is nothing and her eyes are filling with tears –
She stumbles back, and her legs give out. The bow tumbles from her grasp, landing awkwardly on the grass beside her. The scent of crushed flowers penetrate the thick fog surrounding her mind, and her gaze falls on the scattered petals that sadly comfort her abandoned bow.
In a world without the one I love, what colour would the flowers that bloom be?
A hysterical giggle weaves itself in between the tears, and they finally stop falling. She has no desire to know the colour of flowers in a world without her lover, and many other things beside. Even if they were to bloom in every colour possible, they would never be as pretty as the flowers that she saw while by his side.
With that thought, that conviction, her fingers close about the bow once more. One last arrow, one final white arrow by the same hands, and it would be just like before, when they walked in the same world.
The arrow is released, as are her regrets.
--And for the third time, “she” is parted from “him”.
On a nameless beach, the noble lady’s laugh sounded in the darkness of the night like the tinkle of chimes. The servant man extended a solicitous hand to his lady as they made their way down the shore to the water blacker than night itself.
Perhaps it would be erroneous to term them “noble lady” and “servant man” respectively, as they had shunned those titles mere hours before. Rejecting the society that would rather see them dead than together, they ran away before an arranged wedding could seal their fate.
Neither death nor separation bode well with the pair, leaving escape as their only option. Hence they embarked upon the boat through treacherous waters, a most dangerous journey. And yet it was no less perilous than if they were to remain behind. In fact, the waters were much safer than humans, for if the waters turned on you, you have none to blame but fate.
Within minutes of leaving the shore the man was dead and gone, and the woman was spared to scream and cry over the fate of her lover.
“What a pity. A valiant attempt, certainly, but one doomed to fail,” the boatman said without a trace of pity in his voice. Only contempt, yes, caustic contempt dripping from every syllable and burning the woman’s broken heart.
Loraine’s fingers unfurl from the edge of the boat and she straightens despite the perpetual rocking of the fragile vessel. The glare she bestows on the boatman goes unseen in the dark, but the contempt contained within it easily surpasses anything that the assassin could ever muster.
--And for the fourth time, “he” is taken away from “her”.
The scarlet windmill turns and turns, regardless of what happens in the village below. Whether in peace or in chaos, it spins to its own tempo, be it quick or slow. At least in his childhood memories, it did.
Laurencin had left with nothing, no food, no money, no possessions whatsoever. The only thing that he held on to was Ciel’s hand, a hand clammy with fear and anticipation. His own palm was probably no better, but details recalled years later in a place far removed from the actual scene tend to be hazy. He could recall with startling clarity the wide-eyed terror written across Ciel’s face, the way strands of her hair clung to her face as they ran, but he couldn’t for the life of him recall how they clung to each other in the forest, how they tried to believe against the odds.
The waning afternoon light gave way to darkness as they huddled in the forest, that much he knew. Stardust streaked the skies, a breathtaking sight at odds with the horrors he bore witness to hours ago. The only sounds he heard were the rustle of dry leaves as they proceeded blindly through the maze of trees, the snap of twigs caused by misplaced steps. The ever-present feeling of paranoia haunted him, making him jump warily whether a loose sleeve snagged on a branch.
He could remember all this, and yet the exact moment when he realised that Ciel was lost to him… He recalled nothing but the whinny of horses, the blind panic that put his legs into motion, the feeling of a pair of entreating eyes burning into his back. Years down the road, regret all but buried what he might have once found precious, leaving only what he would rather forget.
The scarlet windmill had ceased turning even before he ran away, though Laurencin would never know about it.
--And for the fifth time, “she” is unknowingly lost to “him”.
“I hope you had a pleasant journey, kýrie. What business do you have with the goddess, if I may ask?”
The young man with startling familiar amethyst eyes cast them downwards, a picture of respect and hopeful uncertainty. “A good day to you as well, kyría. I was told that there is one named Sophia that could assist me on this island, and I was hoping to receive her counsel as advised by my master, if I may.”
Not a supplicant of Astra’s, then? Her lips curved upwards in a rehearsed smile, one that was ragingly at odds with the mourning she felt in her heart. “Very well, kýrie, you may request an audience with her.”
“I’m afraid that you came too late, kýrie. We had a priestess named Artemisia, but she has unfortunately been taken by worshippers of Hudōr a few days before.”
She is allowed to sit in as Sophia attends to this guest, albeit unseen and unheard. The resemblance of this man to the friend she had is striking, and she feels a sense of kinship with him, for they would both mourn the loss of Misia.
Or perhaps not, for after a moment of shocked silence he speaks up again, with fire in his eyes and desperation in his voice. “Where is the nearest temple of Hudōr?”
She nearly speaks up to rebuke him for addressing the consecrated female so rudely, but she holds her tongue. It would be out of line for her to do so, for he is not one of them.
Sophia did not seem to mind, for she graced the traveller with a warm smile that carried all her blessings and regrets. “It is but a short boat ride from here, kýrie.”
With scarcely another word he is gone, carelessly leaving the door open behind him.
“Pray for him, Phyllis. Pray for his safety. Pray that he may come to terms with what he may see at the temple,” Sophia murmurs, her eyes closed in acceptance.
Phyllis leaves her corner to attend to the door; even if Sophia had not asked, she would have done so anyway. For he was Misia’s brother, and even if he had not yet accepted it, her companion in loss.
--And for the sixth time, “he” slips past without knowing “her”.
“I don’t wish for any of that.”
The crucified, the dead girl told him this. Her words may have been arrogant, but her tone was far from it. She sounded genuinely contrite that he had come all this way to assist her, only to be turned down.
Märchen’s baton wavered as he sought to mask his surprise. Truly, he had not expected such a reaction from a woman so gruesomely killed, so unfairly murdered. Yes, murdered. No other word described the circumstances of her death so accurately. And yet, unfair as it was, this woman was turning down the offer of sweet revenge?
Did he know his woman? No, he did not. She simply did not exist in his memories, and by that extension she did not exist in his past. Why did she speak as though she knew him intimately, as though they were far more than acquaintances? As though they were friends?
What nonsense. He would have recognised his friends. He would have known if he had friends.
But you remember nothing, a voice reminds him. You remember nothing, so how could you expect to remember her? Unbidden, a lush forest with a carpet of flowers and a ceiling of stardust rises into the forefront of his mind as the woman (the girl) sings.
“I am Elisabeth,” she tells him.
Elisabeth, Elisabeth, the voice echoes, and out of nowhere he is brought back to a window, a lone girl, a tentative handshake. A girl who introduced herself as “Elisabeth” as she hesitantly took his hand (was that his hand?)
“Just the one who loved you alone, just Elisabeth,” she continues, almost pleading for him to remember as she pulls him into an embrace, and he does remember but why can’t he say it, say that he does remember her and that he –
He what, exactly? Did he love her, and her alone?
The moment he finds his answer the memories become unblocked, flooding his mind with their warmth, and he finds that he can return this embrace even knowing that it will be their last.
--And for the last time, Märchen meets with Elisabeth.
