in a quiet museum somewhere outside budapest, severin and ira make an unfortunate discovery in a display. part 1. @perdefinitio .
paramount to the way in which they transverse through the summers of the earth, two bodies that renew despite the hazards of life, time seems to come grinding to a halt. under shining spotlight, ira is the driver, he who slams forth the rusted wrought iron brakes; severin’s energy seems scattered, fragmented. he sensed this, as he sensed the man’s growing unsteadiness, too; may it masquerade itself to others, or be as simple as daylight. he cannot remain in shadow to the long-lost prince, nor does ira believe he ever wishes to. the magnitude of the moment between them seems significant enough to push waves on a Richter scale; ira has a honeyed gaze trained on his husband, as though to look away is to commit a cardinal sin. there is something burning behind the glass. why else would he retract so apace ? for what other reason would the cool, effortless breeze of the rebel-hearted mercian, shift so corruptly to an exhausted downpour ? he sensed this in him. hunger growing for it’s source, ira cannot hear severin’s pleas. centuries of devoting his mind, his soul, his body to him, has rendered the man incapable of playing devil’s advocate. he will seek out the source and he will eradicate it.
heavy steps, weighted, take the man forth, as though he were a knight on some valiant trail to glory. indicative of the hundreds, if not thousands of times he has marched onward for severin, and for severin alone. though it pains him to perhaps pay semblance into his love’s disquiet, ira is not such a timid man as to simply lay bare to it; he is a lore, a legend, THE WINCHESTER WIGHT, the terrible 𝔚𝔲𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔣𝔬𝔡 that smirks the rotten forests with sharp teeth and sharper blades; he will not sit idly by and watch severin ache. though he may wish it were simple as a bodied foe. when the ancient eyes find author of the other’s alarm, he, too, is shaken.
the lights in the glass casing are harsh and bold, synthetic. there isn’t a scrap of activity beside them; the pair are in the room alone together. the room itself is peeling, unloved, with draping grey cobwebs in tall, unreachable corners, and splintering wooden floorboards. some scrap of carpet in the corner is stained, perhaps having seen hundreds of onlookers. in-keeping with the theme, it seems, there is no wholesomeness to the way the letter is displayed. blistering under the spotlights like kindling. as if that’s all it was ever for. ira’s gaze widens.
“ ira, ” the name seems to lose itself in the ether, sound appears to fragment. “ let’s just move onto the next room, please ? ”
but the man is silent. there isn’t a thing severin can do to remove his focus, nor can he detract from the severity of the situation. this letter, damaged through time, marked here and there with the bloods of dirt, is not so simple as a shred of history; this letter is a whistle-blower. this letter is a mark of the oppression they have faced their entire lives. this letter, in writing so obviously severin’s, is a heron, and it caws at him as if it were hellish; this letter is, quite simply, trauma. he doesn’t recognize it, can’t place it’s nature, and can’t seem to dedicate a year to it, either. simply that it speaks of a time they had been apart, and that it had been lost along it’s way to finding him. from how he has written it, ira wonders if this had been in separation forced; how long had it have been at this point ? where was he, if not by severin’s side, where he is to belong for eternity; when was it from ? WHY WAS HE NOT THERE ? somehow, underneath the stoic exterior, though no sound breaks the barrier, ira feels himself lose breath in a motionless whimper. the spring of his confident guise slips almost immediately into a cold, harrowing winter. every moment he has ever spent away from the other seems to taunt him, suddenly, as though the room floods with cackling demons.
if severin speaks to him again, ira can’t hear him. it’s only when he feels the man’s touch, open palm flat against the brace of his forearm, that he breaks the fog. his gaze retreats to meet the other’s. oh, the agony you have had to endure my love, and the agony i have not been present to remedy. he can’t move, can’t uproot his boots from the spot; an oak destined to stay put, stay still, to wait, to wait for severin to arrive, to watch that pine doorframe until the small hours of shivering morning, and still remain without him, still remain frozen, still feel the scolding chill. ira blinks.
“ i can’t leave it there, ” he manages. his voice is too ruptured, too split apart with anguish. he searches severin’s eyes. there is too much pain there to cope with all at once; the perpetrator is not some gall-faced thug, this time; no. the perpetrator of severin’s pain is loss. ira cannot wield a sword to it, can’t cut it open for it’s wrongdoings, can’t remind it of it’s sins by squeezing life from it; for he, in some sense, is the cause of it. there is a small shake forming on his fingers. “ i can’t, sev. ”
