ferdinand frowns as he hears the shuffle of feet, the swish of a blade, and the huff and puff of a soldier’s bated breath. the stars are out, and have been for quite some time --- and he sighs when he enters the knight’s hall, watching the other slice straight through a training dummy. remarkably admirable, but woefully frustrating. (1/2!)
ferdinand knocks on the door post, ginger tresses falling across his shoulders. ‘felix. it is late, and you are tired, though i know you likely will not admit it. if you will not go to bed, would you take a break and have a cup of tea with me, please?’ (2/2 :>)
how easy is it to lose track of time?
a trick question ———— and patently not.
time slips / fluid and an escape artist to the last and so very impossible and implausible to hold onto / inasmuch as he enjoys having the pretense of control to bolster him wholly and utterly therein lies the problem of it being A FUCKING PRETENSE and little more ———— a man well controlled and a warrior well regimented : splitting at the seams. with no one to bear witness but the shimmer of sunlight over the ocean ————
above the moon is poised to crack. full and whole and glowing, high in the sky and awaiting to die again and again and / again. the stars glitter alongside it, watching and silent and perishing, too. ( he hides from the moon. ) and as above : so below / which is to say that the moon is fit to bursting and the moon is him and HOW SO VERY ARROGANT TO LIKEN THE FRAGILITY OF MORTALITY TO THE SKIES ABOVE but then, he’s hardly one to care any one way or another, is he?
steel sings as it cuts through the air / and enemies crumble but these enemies make no sound but the clattering of wood and the crash as it hits the ground and his mind is silent. his mind is raucous. his mind is clamoring and all too still and when there is a knock and when that voice reaches him his hand tightens around the hilt of his sword / compulsive. reflexive.
there are an infinite amount of things he could say. i’m not tired rests on his tongue, a blatant lie ( one that they’re both aware of and he’s never been in the habit of lying, has he? ) that burns. it burns. the lie or the exhaustion? go away is much like stop bothering me is useless and pointless and fruitless and will achieve nothing / less than nothing / nothing at all / not in the least. i can’t think i can’t stop thinking i can’t ————
well. that’s too honest, isn’t it?
❝ i will take a break when i wish to, ❞ which is to say when he’s weary and worn and his mind is finally, finally, blissfully silent. truly silent. not full of white noise and screams and ———— a quieting silence. a breathing silence.
the statement is nuanced and barbed and carries with it the idea that he may never stop will never stop can never stop and inasmuch as he knows he cannot fight and fight and fight eternally he must. he has to. there’s nothing else and nowhere else and ————
( how fragmented and how disjointed and how almost sad and how pervasive the mind becomes and the rot becomes and the disintegration of bones and how strange it is : that he’s found him here. or perhaps the strangeness comes from that it’s him, of all people. )
somehow he has a feeling that ferdinand senses his double entendre. senses and furthermore knows and looks at him with raised brows and et cetera. waiting. waiting.
this is a reflection of the self so what does it mean when this place holds nothing? emptiness stretches all around him and he’s pacing in circles within the confines of his own ind and THERE IS FERDINAND : watching and waiting and expecting without expectation? perhaps. perhaps. perhaps. isn’t is always so? isn’t it always thus? he’s an infuriating man ———— something about the way which he carries himself and conducts himself and so on and so forth for all of fucking eternity, it seems / something that sets felix’s teeth on edge a great deal of the time and yet ————
is it that this circuitous route grows tiresome? is it that the moon is fit to crack and shatter above them, hidden from sight for now but its aches are his aches, awaiting its final moments all over again? is it that he’s tired to the very marrow of his bones and the body yearns to rest in spite of the mind’s protestations otherwise? is it that he knows, instinctive and damning, that sleep will not come tonight? is it all of these? is it none of these?
❝ ———— but i need to retrieve my archery set and move to the training yard, ❞ an excuse? perhaps. almost certainly. but his shoulder screams and there is an exhaustion about him and something not repulsive about having a single cup of tea with ferdinand ———— impressive, in and of itself.
and so he brushes past him : not bothering to wait nor stop nor hem nor haw. expectant and imperious and bones / creaking.
@nobleduty // you’re burnished and glimmering and fracturing.
