#mir.write

[ophiaihel]

— Journal pages of the late Cèrsèlo Al Neorciev, the first recorded master of agimiia énoirie.

[ text of photos under the cut ]

Introduction

Magic. It is a strange and bitter word that plagues not only the parchment, but my fingertips, dedicating time to such a remarkably terrible, and yet wonderful, burden. I do not understand how this power as been bestowed upon me; not even the priest, an ‘all - knowing’ man, can fathom why a godless woman would be blessed, made sacred by the goddesses themselves. I cannot remove its presence, though I have tried many a time. The only way would be through death, and there is not enough witchcraft in this realm to coerce me, a knowledgeable mortal, into craving the falchion. So I shall endure this newfound ability, and suffer its consequences in order for others to thrive.

Let this be not a mistake, but a lesson, for the damned and the blessed alike.

Winter, 209 A.S.

Magic, as I have learned, cannot be fabricated from nothingness, nor can it be eradicated into its previous oblivion. It has to be transferred from a grand source, that of light or of darkness. Only am I able to succeed at nightfall and in the shadows, though it has been rumored that a man from a neighboring village has breathed the sun, has set his town ablaze and fled. Rubble and ash are the only source of veracity, but I digress.

When I wield my gift (mind you, the term is used lightly), it seemingly infiltrates the object or person it has been applied upon, and stays there, festering about until I retrieve it. As a trial of this, I enchanted a dagger. As winter bled in, the magic became extremely tenacious, and the weapon, brittle. It is quite terrifying, but I do not dread it. Masters never question their craft, after all.

Summer, 210 A.S.

Agimiia énoirie. That is what they have chosen to call the manipulation of darkness, and agimiia lélgnoril, the possession of light. Peculiar, how I manipulate darkness, yet they possess light. But possess it how? The fools. We all utilize the sources surrounding us, neither possess our element.

And still, people gaze at me with trepidation lingering in their countenances. I am not to be feared, for darkness and light are both a balance, and you cannot be afraid of one, and simply not be terrified of the other. Even so, they are. They are, they are, they are —

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[ophiaihel]

“A tale, they say, it was a tale before, before the documentation gathering at feather's edge, etching the claim of visionary tongue onto parchment. They say the peasants had told it as they withered away, brandishing ashes that swiped the gossip of knights, who slept with the servants, who curtsied before the royals. It was a silly thing, to be at witted battle over a story, of the origins in which it all commenced.

It all began in concordant whereabouts, of course. It is a story, after all, about a princess, the man who had awoken her, and a dragon.

But the true roots of the narrative were mangled underneath the grove, distorted and buried far below the surface. From such sprouted the tale of the sleeping beauty, the tendrils of gold kissing her clavicles, those vermilion lips parting, cheekbones glistening.

Tell me, do you believe in such?

I do not.

For the legend was anything but a legend; it was a verifiable account of words. The origins?

Why, the origins are about a knight, a queen, and a blind prince, locked in death's embrace by a measly thorn upon delicate flesh.

Are you not intrigued?”

“But Grandmother, who brought the prince back to life?”

“Dear, that would be your greatest ancestor...

— my grandfather.”

tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added/removed) | @flowrsun, @dragonwiccan, @lefttowritee, @omgbrekkerkaz , & @taohuawrites.

[ophiaihel]

because i know how much ya’ll love milo & cas,,

[ wip ] the slaughter of finches.

[ characters ] milo wilson & caspian emlyn.

There were five things Caspian knew in that moment. The first, his determination that the road ahead had been, and will be, simply endless, and the second, the reality that he didn’t quite mind it. Naturally, the steering wheel was gelid against his palm, and even colder on the pads of his fingertips, but he felt at ease, even as the winter swelled and ruptured around the vehicle.

The third thing he perceived was the openness around him, the lack of wilderness, the lack of civilization. It was just… empty. Not even a carcass had materialized on the supposedly endless strip in which he drove, just fields upon fields of nothing but soiled patches, shimmering delicately with frost, and what he assumed to be his own haziness, a varnished perspective of his snow - globe world.

The fourth was that he was not alone, and that the man beside him had awoken just the slightest. His breath, sultry against the window, a mirror slick with condensation, had lilted just a tad, a bit out of rhythm with the natural hum of normalcy, and somewhat now in tune with the song slipping softly from a CD - induced radio player. Milo had blinked, lashes lapping against flushed cheekbones ever so slowly, the edge of a smile tinting pale lips. Warm eyes, outlined in a mauve hue, found their home in Caspian’s own, deepened with the kind of fatigue you only see in horror flicks and infomercials (which, of course, he believed were the same). Neither said a word to the other.

They didn’t need to.

The fifth was that his hand, the one not in acquaintance with the automobile, was dangling freely from where he’d utilized the armrest, motionless. He hadn’t realized how truly vacant it was until his partner’s was drawn into it, and the other’s fingertips were tracing each bruised knuckle of his with acute kindness. Obviously, Caspian had let this occur, a part of him now resting on his lover’s lap, whose forehead no longer repose upon the ledge of the passenger side door. Instead, Milo’s features tilted downward, gazing fondly at their fingers, now intertwined. Caspian allowed the warmth of it to catch his arm ablaze, as if he were a wooden figurine, and the stimulus of admiration, a lighter to his flammable limbs. It felt remarkable, and some part of him, the part that had no fear of dissipating, wanted to ignite and burn forever, though it was impossible. And yet, he thought, I light up every damn time, no matter how burnt out.

And so, as any sane individual with a knack for passion did, he brought the man’s hand to his lips, kissing coarse skin, how he always had when the flare left the rest of him craving that kind of heat and loving every second of its infectious brilliance. Still, neither said a word.

They didn’t need to.

tag / milo / caspian.

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[ophiaihel]

“i’m saying this because i care about you.” + for any pairing of your choice because I’m ready to suffer on this fine Sunday morning

it’s totally not sunday & this is totally late, but here’s some milo & geni on this fine saturday night!

He senses the warmth of her figure before the influence of her fingertips upon his, replacing the butt of a cigarette with a tepid cup of watered-down chocolate. Through the phantom exhaust and side eye glances, he recognizes the natural tinge of her lips, the rouge arraying the edge of them with childlike intention, as if she’d binged on red dye 40 and hadn’t the ability to erase the proof she’d done so. Without the lipstick, Genevieve Aldaini appears less like Genevieve Aldaini, and more like a crumpled magazine on the nightstand of a bed adorning a hazy motel. She smiles. He smiles back.

“I’m in trouble,” she says, a slight laugh prickling throughout.

“How so?” he responds, his gift already growing cold against winter flesh. Milo blows into it as if it were hot, though, avoiding taking it in as if it could sear him in its current state.

She tilts her head, but not at him, and replies, “Caspian ain’t happy with me, to put it as lightly as weights in a wooden crate.”

He frowns, “Not my Caspian.”

“You’ve never been so damn wrong,” Genevieve whispers. She turns to face him, but he doesn’t do the same, for fear of the red-rimmed, bleary eyed woman has left him numb. Frozen. “I’m… I’m sayin’ this because I care about you -”

“Don’t,” he cuts her off, “Genevieve, please don’t.”

“He ain’t the same man you met back in high school, Milo. That ain’t him, and it ain’t ever gonna be him, you know that.” He feels her shift, cough, run her fingers through her hair. Then her hand is on his, and she’s murmuring, “I know he’s a great man, darlin’, but even great men’ll haveta change to compensate for the thing that’ll hurt ‘em.” She’s crying, and he’s crying, too. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause, a soft tranquility that neither can comprehend.

“I’ll talk to him,” Milo finally answers. Then he takes a sip, and it’s the coldest he’s tasted in a long time.