#muse test.

[emperorcrest-blog]

  you were a child with a lot to say , and not the words to say it. tore your dress and picked the sword first and formost, walked out in the garden to come back with muddy dress and ignored the nanny calling a name that did not belong to you. ‘  ⬛ ⬛ ⬛ ⬛ is such a little tomboy ! ’ the maids would chatter, about how you’d make such a fine knight one day, like your brother. 

 glenn followed you out into the garden one day, watched you swing your sword for a few moments, corrected your posture, and watched you frown. he always knew when something was wrong. he always knew. barely seven years old, legs bare and frown creased, you had the intention, but not the words.

 ‘ what’s wrong? ‘ hushed and gentle, he asked. you had not the words until that moment.

 ‘ i think i’m a boy. i don’t want... to be a girl. ‘ seven years old, and you didn’t know what the world had to throw at you, but you knew enough to be scared. glenn had never turned you away before, but something in you still feared ... something.

 ‘ sure. what should i call you, then? ‘ the relief you felt was heavy, not light. not anything like that. 

 ‘ felix. ‘ you’d read in a book that it meant lucky in some language long dead, and you’d like a name that brought you good things. maybe... it would bring glenn good things too. and it was as simple as that. no questions asked ( not from glenn, anyway. ) ; and if there was one thing you learned on that day, it was that life goes on.

 the fear you had felt had been so aching, so absolute, so terrible, and yet your brother had just taken your new name and replaced the rotting one your parents had pressed on your forehead at birth. and, well... if glenn said something, the whole household had to as well.

 there were no more dresses. the word tomboy didn’t rest like a shackle on your ankles anymore. dimitri and sylvain and ingrid accepted it as easily as anything. your father slipped up a lot, but... you could forgive him. glenn would always correct him , anyway. ( years later, and your father didn’t slip up anymore. in the absence of glenn, he needed a son. you just happened to be the closest in reach. ) 

 life went on. life went on. life went on. 

 felix: noun ( name. ) from a roman cognomen meaning ‘lucky, successful’ in latin. now here’s the truth : luck doesn’t exist. fate doesn’t exist. words don’t mean anything, and names certainly don’t either. your name had no bearing on how happy your brother was. did your name save him in duscur ? did your choice of sylables matter beyond your childish wishes ?

 ( you were born with something wild and angry in your blood that glenn did not have, something an ancestor or cruel god decided to give you instead of him : if he had had it, would have he survived ? you asked yourself that over and over and over, thirteen years old and so deep in grief that you could feel that disgusting thing in your blood burning and your eyes glowing and and and and and and )

( you learned that day, thirteen years old, suddenly heir of a mourning house that had never expected to have a son like you at its head, that fate doesn’t exist, and if god does, then she doesn’t care. the only thing that can change anything is the force of human will and the strength with which they persue their goals. )

                                         life goes on. 

[siabhrah-blog]

PART ONE: the leaving.

 you were always a strange child: too shy and too brash all at once. things made you mad, but made you wither away too. the torch in your eyes made you freeze and snarl all at once. 

 this town is your home, but every bird must fly the nest. your eyes brush, fourteen years old and unable to see anything beyond the future that must come to you, you’re sure of it, and beyond her. 

 tifa stands there, in the blue dress she wore that night under the stars, and waves at you. the twitch of her mouth sends shivers down your spine, and you turn away where perhaps you would have smiled back in another moment. she’s probably confused.

 but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be a new person the next time she sees you. you’ll be stronger, you’ll be tougher, you’ll have enough money to let your mother retire, and you’ll have the strength in your arms to help out round the town instead of getting in the way. 

 at last, your potential will be shown and tifa will - everyone will - 

 what? will what? will w-

PART TWO: the mourning

years are a long time to look over things, and yet here you are, in a burning town, a dead mother, a ruined hero worship, and things won’t get better, i can promise you that, dear one. 

 there might be raw strength to be found in your pure humanity, but you know - you know, sweetest, that it’s not going to last long. that katana through your chest is the start, and your human blood isn’t going to heal itself. 

 press your face against the glass, wolf, like an animal in a zoo with no visitors and only the ominous beep beep beep of machines. life flows through your veins, and this is your dream come true, except it’s not, it’s nothing like what you wanted. your shoulders might be strong enough to carry your long dead town on their shoulders, but is your heart? 

 there’s a burst of freedom, but you’re hardly human and hardly alive. there’s a brush of a breeze on your skin, but you can’t wake. who are you? it’s been a common question, since you were young, but it’s more prominent here than ever.

 there’s a voice - who’s? - comforting, familiar. you know that voice. but you can’t reply. ( you will regret this later, until you lack the capacity to do so entirely. )

 gunfire- you know that sound, you know, you know - blood on ground, rain on face, dirt to dirt to dirt and a blade slips from hand to hand as you turn your head to howl at the sky.

PART THREE: the absence

 you are gone. or rather, you are separate. someone else moves a body stiffly, that looks like yours, with hands on an important sword that makes you itch. you know who you are: cloud strife, nothing and no one, but whoever is dancing that body around doesn’t seem to get it. he seems to think that he’s hot shit - or that you are. it’s confusing to think about.

 he’s both you, and not you, and it’s terrifying in its intensity, and all you can do is watch. you talk, sometimes, in despair, in the spaces between sleeping and waking. people notice. you know tifa does. it makes you feel nice that she notices that he’s not whoever you are, that she took that much notice of you, even as you tried to hide from her. 

 aerith notices, and you long to meet her, truly, its been a while since you’ve wanted to do something when the world has hurt you so much and then

 you know why it is you’re here and he’s out there as he spirals and crumbles as you do too, two cracked marble statues falling in tandem. you break.

PART FOUR: the rising

you break, but the planet fixes you, takes you into her loving arms. it’s been so long since you felt your mother’s arms around you, and she’s not your mother, but it feels the same.

 and then you feel tifa talking, and it’s different, and the same, all at once. life is confusing, and you could remain here forever, safe and comforted and away from reality but the world is dying, and you’re not the only one who could save it, but you’re the only ones trying. 

 the mother who let you find yourself again needs your help. it’s almost sad, that you, broken and fractured as (the many of you) you are, are the one she has to piece back together and ask for help. how disgusting is humanity, that you are the refuge she has to scrape off the bottom for her survival.

 but no, it’s not just you, and it’s not just him. it’s also tifa, and barret, and red xiii, and vincent, and cait, and yuffie, and cid and -

  and aerith. you hardly know them - you weren’t the one here, but you do feel like you do, and you explain as best you can without making it sound too terrible. they accept you. it feels bright.

 if you were a bird, you’d be a phoenix. but you’re not a bird, you’re a wolf, and you still have teeth and claws and instincts, even as Meteor crumbles against the lifestream and the world is save.

  (this is not the end.)