#srcellerie

[timecall]

@srcellerie replied to your post: my mood is ping ponging back and forth with this...

sh….. show us the boy in the dancer attire…… p l z

this is the life i live now, also i’m sure @gasbardian also appreciates this lad 

[knightsdeath]

🤝 + 21 (in a rush of adrenaline)

some could argue that there’s a certain level of COGNITIVE DISSONANCE to him. some could further argue that there’s a point of no return ———— this drive to fight and this motivation to battle and better himself can only be curbed by the deeper wish to help the innocent and protect those he loves so much. some could furthermore drag into light that the steadiness of him in battle is perhaps more terrifying than the total loss of control ( to which he would staunchly disagree, for good reason ) and if they were to peer into his mind and his innermost thoughts during these times ————

he doesn’t know when it began. when he began to hear her voice, carrying and high and light and clear as sunlight stretching over an early spring morning, radiant over the frost ridden grass. it’s rather silly, in the end. when her songs pop into his head at the strangest of times. in his sleep ( her song the cries of war and her voice a siren’s song bringing those to slaughter and to the killing floor and to their deaths by his hand / or his hand / or another’s hand ) and in battle and in the small spaces in between.

he doesn’t know when it began. he can’t begin to pinpoint when he started to hear her voice outside of hearing her and seeing her in those strange and random occurrences where he would simply stumble across her and there she would be : singing and dancing with her energy radiating and light sloughing off of her in layers upon layers upon layers.

does it begin with death? does it begin with disassociation? does it begin with the perils of mortality? or does it simply begin with her and how she lingers in his thoughts every now and then without so much as a by your leave on his part?

( it could well be curiosity, as well. the oddity of them and the strangeness of them and the stories that they tell and how he cannot begin to piece together what she’s trying to tell him, which may well be THE POINT, though he’s of a mind that a song is meant to tell a story and tell it wholly and fully, but. i digress. )

speaking and wondering and questioning in circles. shall we start again?

THERE’S HER VOICE AGAIN / the clarity of the early morning sun / as the final enemy falls at the other end of his blade. a flash and then a big boom ———— he’s gotten separated from the others again, dragged away from the thick of it to a smaller throng of enemies which had seen it fit to not quite ambush him, though the idea was certainly there. dispatching them had proven to be simple enough and, from the sounds of it, the rest had been felled by the rest.

the preternatural silence of a battlefield quelled lingers over his head and he gazes up at the sky which is steadily going orange above them as he wipes his blade on his trousers, caring little for the smear of gore that’s left behind. he breathes ————

a flash and then a big boom, suddenly the deed is done !!

and twists as there’s a movement behind him and, ah. it seems he hadn’t fully finished the job, or otherwise this one had been good at PLAYING DEAD before he could do another pass over the enemy to ensure that they were all well and truly dead and saw it fit to act now, in this moment of garishly false peace. felix’s blade lifts and he’s ready to behead this man in one fell swoop / before there’s a burst of wind and / he’s torn to shreds.

blood splatters and felix’s hair is caught up in the brief wind storm, whipping around his face as he watches as the foolish bastard is summarily and quickly killed and / he knows without seeing and knows without knowing who had conjured this magic. the impression that she leaves and the energy that she resonates and the peculiar uptick of her wind magic ———— he knows it near as well as he knows her voice, humming through his mind / and there she is !! rushing towards him from over the small hill, looking no worse for wear aside from her hair being tousled and her customary braid being slightly undone / and something like relief unravels in his chest.

❝ you’re alive !! ❞ exuberant and overflowing with light and the sheer intensity that she carries, she closes the distances between them rather quickly / he takes no more than three steps towards her before she’s all but crashed into him, her hands grasping at his elbows and her feet skidding along the ground and she is / a clear spring day, after all.

❝ yes, ❞ a rather lackluster response, truly, though he responds to her primarily because he feels compelled to and furthermore because THIS IS ANNETTE and the remnants of battle remain on her ( her axe hanging from her belt, now, secured and tucked away / blood splattered over her clothing and a smear over her cheek / a jagged rip in her sleeve that may or may not be hiding an injury beneath it ) and within her, the adrenaline that thrums through his veins practically diminished in comparison to HER.

❝ you almost wouldn’t have been, ❞ and here she sounds aggrieved, frowning up at him as she so customarily does / the difference between their interactions and her interactions with the vast majority of their classmates had once been BEMUSING TO HIM if nothing else ———— but he’s grown predominantly used to it, by now. to the exasperation that she treats him with far more often than not. ❝ i can’t believe you got distracted on the battlefield, after all the grief that you give everyone else about it. ❞

❝ i know, ❞ felix is able to own up to his mistakes, if nothing else, though he knows it’ll do little to nothing in alleviating any of annette’s frustration with him / alight as she is / glowing as she is / all but vibrating still with the aftermath of battle.

( how muted she had been, appearing at those crossroads. changed by time and changed by circumstance and changed ———— she had been overbright, still. but somehow dampened / as if a cloud had drifted over her in its meandering path / but she burned, still. and burn she did. and burn she does : light leaking from every last one of her pores. too saccharine? too over-sweet? his teeth ache in her presence yet he wants to be close to her, still ———— and what does that meant, precisely?

oh, he knows. he knows. do you? )

❝ i was foolish, though i had the situation under control, ❞ he had, to be entirely fair. killing that final straggler would have been as easy as breathing. ❝ the enemy was a minor threat. ❞

❝ felix, you ———— ❞ irritation makes itself further known in her tone and the twist of her mouth and her hands tighten on his elbows / a silent demand to accompany her verbal one, before he cuts her off swiftly.

❝ but thank you, ❞ speaking over annette is no easy thing to do, but he wishes to make himself infinitely clear. at all times and at any time / but especially with her. annette, who’s alight and glowing and leaking light and luminous in the face of the sun about to set. has she always been this way? even back then? ❝ if you hadn’t intervened, i likely would have sustained an injury. ❞

a pause, before she squeezes him briefly, fingers firm along his bones. ❝ you’re welcome. just ———— listen to yourself for once and keep a look out. ❞

❝ i will, ❞ her voice in his head as quieted itself / as if in deference to the reality / as if knowing that she’s all the better to listen to properly and fully and with his absolute attention. looking at her. gazing at her / the fall of her hair around her face / and the furrow of her brow / and the set of her mouth / the blood on her cheek.

he wants to wipe it away.

he doesn’t. for now. for now.

@srcellerie​ // my mind is an echo chamber for you , for you —— touch.

[antibadnik-a]

animorphs sucks you absolute plebian. you utter fool. i cannot believe you right now. unplug your router. [anonymous]

i guess ive been had.....time to delete

[nakotnes]

srcellerie

  sometimes  u  need  a  reminder  that  silver ...

……………gives him another

four  swords.

[emblcmatique]

srcellerie a réagi à votre billet : //since everyone’s doing it!!! munday picture...

I’m So Mad

//i’m sorry, would you forgive me with a song?

[knightsdeath]

❝ ———— does the library go boom for a reason? ❞ he... doesn’t get it.

@srcellerie // hi

[knightsdeath]

he's turned away from her, all made up of hard lines & tension. she watches him stand there, concern coloring her features in a furrowed brow & slight frown. "felix—" she speaks, breaking the silence & letting him know she's here ( & she is. always. always for him. no matter what ), before stepping forward to press herself against his back, arms slipping around his torso. her face is buried in the thick material of his overcoat, muffling her voice as she says, "breathe, please."

there are good days / and bad days.

as time stretches ( inexorable and absolute and unavoidable and forming a rift between now and then as the war slips further and further and / further ) the good begins to outnumber the bad in a stuttering and catching manner. but that’s something of a lie, he supposes. more accurately there are good days / and bad days / and days that lie somewhere in between and the MIDDLE GROUND is the repetition of the beating heart in his chest and he slips to and fro on that sliding scale and grapples for an in between. good days, in the operative sense, are rare.

today is ( and you may have very well guessed, by now ) a bad day. a bleak day. he chokes on nothing and everything and grasps at his throat in a futile and desperate attempt to BREATHE and keep his head well above the surface yet he keeps sliding further down the precipice and his fingers are frost bitten and raw from scrabbling against the icy cliff face.

and he : lies at the bottom of this ravine staring up and up and up into the grey grey sky and feels himself / and not himself / and feels the weight and the absolution of the VERY UNIVERSE ITSELF pressing against every inch of his body, threatening to bury him six feet under, all without digging a grave. there will be others, down there. eyes like his own. a nose like his own. hair like his own. the macabre and fragmented pieces of the construction of the self laid out like a LIFELESS DOLL waiting in the dark for its child to return to it once more.

she’s there, he knows. standing in the doorway and small and soft and warm in the cool and grey light that filters through and there is snow falling, outside. others speak of a blizzard and others, still, whisper of of the worst storm seen since ———— it’s been 25 long, long years, hasn’t it?

the silence is stagnant and stale and frosty as the tips of his fingers / as the wind outside / and he beats and beats and beats against the IDIOCY OF THE HUMAN CONDITION and wishes to : fall. to the bottom. yet, he’s already here, isn’t he? ( there are voices and there are people and THE DEAD ARE DEAD / THE LIVING ARE LIVING / but hasn’t he learned better, by now? hasn’t he learned? hasn’t he : grown?

is this regression? ———— no, stop. you are felix hugo fraldarius. there is no one else. not anymore. )

she’s there, he knows, watching him with her gentle eyes and her calloused fingers and her siren’s voice which so frequently breaks through the crowds and while SHE HAUNTS HIS NIGHTMARES she brightens his dreams / his days / his waking moments and if he is winter then is she not spring? oh, surely. oh, certainly. oh, she carries in her the first warm breezes that finally, finally melt away the long months of cold and suffering : melting him away, too.

the floorboards creak and when her arms wrap around him he almost jumps despite himself and he fights against the compulsion to TWIST AND BREAK FREE / his skin crawling beneath her touch and he almost wants to wretch. wants to ————

her warmth reaches through the layers and layers and layers that he wears and he wonders if he’s finally : dissolving away / into water / into a clear stream that will / leave.

and : her voice reaches him, muffled but strong still and the breath that he takes is SUDDEN AND SHARP and his lungs sing their relief as they’re finally, finally filled. it’s the remembrance of a true body that shocks him and the tremble of his limbs and the stiffness of his muscles and the gentleness of her arms : around him and holding him and / keeping him from bursting at the seams and this ———— all of this ———— THIS WOMAN AND HER WARMTH AND HER AND HER AND HER.

his gloved hand lifts and / settles over hers / squeezing just too tight as his eyes slip closed and / the snow disappears and / he breathes.

their breathing syncs as his grave site slips : further and further away once more.

@srcellerie // ♥

[knightsdeath]

‘ i’d like to stay like this for awhile. ’

night has fallen once more. or perhaps it’s more apt to say that it has risen, been revived, been resurrected yet again and again and again : only to diminish itself once more for the light of day.

they ( the paired they / not quite the individual they / the unit that they create together in spite of it all ) exist only once the sun has departed from the sky / and it is them / and no one else. it’s factually incorrect to say that NO ONE BUT THE TWO OF THEM exist once the moon has begun to track its way across the sky / but it feels that way / for all that they do not exist on each and every night.

but it’s a useless train of thought to consider them as a unit rather than two individuals whose paths cross more often than not but he finds himself drawn to her / and she has since warmed to him / and the moon has risen and they are seated next to each other. near to each other. closer than they once would have been and she is fixing a tear in her clothes and he doesn’t ask her to sing / isn’t quite sure if he wishes to hear her sing / ALMOST CONTENT to remain in silence as he stares into the middle space.

it feels like a dream.

when did she begin to plague his dreams? when she did she begin to appear, her voice and then her concept and then her form / a sequence of events that he could do LITTLE to prevent but to allow it to happen. when did her voice begin to sing to him so softly and sweetly that it : began to overlay the horror which haunts his attempts at rest.

there are screams / and her voice / and death / and her voice / and there is her : A SIREN GUIDING HIM TO SLAUGHTER IN BATTLE / her voice crooning to a crescendo as he kills and / conquers.

when did she begin to appear in his nightmares?

time passes / and there is a pressure on his shoulder and he tenses at the suddenness of it and his reaction is to FIGHT, ALWAYS to FIGHT AND FIGHT AND FIGHT AND FIGHT ———— yet there is a pop of orange in his periphery and her head is laying on his shoulder and he can see : the braid that arcs across her head, messy due to the hours since she had last plaited it as neatly as she could. and yet / and yet / and yet : he remains tense and still and hardly breathing and her hand, gentle, settles upon his arm. she’s warm.

❝ i’d like to stay like this for a while. ❞

tension that roils through him and his heart bounds and that niggling anxiety has BUILT ITSELF TO A SCREAMING FEVER PITCH and her voice has appeared in his dreams / her voice has appeared in his nightmares / her voice drifts and drifts and drifts ————

her hand is warm. and his pulse beats in his ears / his face warms / this is not a dream. this isn’t a dream. it can’t be a dream and he stares off into middle space as he breathes and breathes and breathes and she remains / quiet / as she tangles their fingers together / and he comes alive once more.

he considers saying something / anything / anything at all to fill this void of silence / yet as his muscles unwind and he eases himself back to a sense of normalcy in whatever manner that means he registers, again and again, the warmth of her hand. how small it is in his. how calloused.

and she : settles / and he : settles / and breathes.

@srcellerie // GRAVE SUGGESTION.