if I took her delicate hand in mine,
if she would dissolve into dust
that would scatter and disappear.
I never thought that I would sit by her hospital bed
(more) and make plans for the day she died.
But here I was,
words choked on my lips,
as she told me
"Don't speak, darling, don't speak."
And I told her
"I love you."
I wondered if she would wither away,
and be lost in the wind.
I wondered if I would break,
when she smiled sadly and told me
"Don't do that either."(less)
People usually think of Death as a thief, coming along and stealing away the ones we love, showing mercy to no one; it's easy to see how the idea arose.
Death is to be feared, to be hated and avoided at all costs. The worst thing you can(more) wish on someone is death, in most worlds. Death, to almost all who consider it, is the enemy of Life, empty and void and the end of all things.
Death, however, does not see himself in this light. To Death, his work is sacred, merciful even. Freeing souls from the torments of life, sending them along on their journey once they've rested and healed from the traumas they've endured; refreshed and renewed and ready for a new adventure. It's beautiful.
In Death's eyes, he is not the enemy of life, nor the opposite. Death is the motivation for Life, the driving force pushing living things to be violently alive; to experience, to feel, wholly and unrestrained.
Death does not steal us, Death embraces us when we've reached the end of our paths, tired of worn or curious and new, leaving after a life that will be called too short or one long and hard and full of living.
And Death, certainly, is not the end. Death is a doorway, a rest stop along a long and infinitely varied journey that, in truth, knows no end.
Nobody understands their relationship. After all, how could the maiden of springtide willingly accompany the lord of the dead? It's absurd; surely such a vibrant soul dependent on the essence of new life would simply wither underground, crumble to dust and join with the inhabitants subordinate to her lord.(more) And so they pity her. They regard her though a melancholic haze as if she were an innocent lamb being led to the slaughter with the coming of winter, when she sheds the spring and wears the mantle of the Iron Queen. They act as though it's a momentous transformation, as though the title is forced upon her. And it maddens her.
She doesn't become the Iron Queen. She had always been the Iron Queen.
There was no jump, no plummet, though there was a fall. It merely happened outside the periphery of those who spent their lives basking in the sun, treating the slightest hint of darkness as a coming evil.
Mortals lived under the assumption that the underworld was a malicious place, that her husband was targeting them in particular.
Gods lived under the assumption that the rich one was unsatisfied with his lot, that he would one day rise against Mount Olympus in order to claim the entirety of the world as his domain.
She lives with the knowledge that he's a wonderful husband. He stays out of mortal affairs, he busies himself with running his kingdom, he gives her domain over the Asphodel Meadows and Elysian Fields...
She's tired of being made to be this martyr, this helpless victim.
All she really wants is to enjoy the company of her husband in peace.(less)
It's cold again. The flowers faded and withered away until there was nothing left but brown ground and chilly breezes.
Despite everything that is dying, or going to sleep, there is certainly something that is blooming in this newly forming seasonal wasteland.
Two people sit closer (more)to each other each day. Body heat, they call it. But there is something more. Her cheeks blush to keep her warm. His laughter keeps him from shivering. So wrapped up in each other that they don't know the world is decaying around them.
By the time they look up, the realize that everything has exploded into a mass of green life. Gazing at the wonder around them, they smile at each other and get lost. As the animals wake up and wonder out of their homes in search of the first food of spring, they wake up and realize they've fallen in love. (less)
only kept alive until your one
could be delivered, for so hopeless-
murderous am i, your spoil-
happy giver; though romantic to
a fault in as i woo to self-
tumult, can nurture-
(more) well for a short time, so as
blooms don't wither & die(less)
As a favor to her for lighting his joint, Tommy Zhang decided to show Saraswathi his garden. "Look how many there are! Because I can always make more whenever I want, and they never wither!" Tommy demonstrated his plant powers, creating a seedling out of his own hand.
"Yeah,(more) never wither - unlike your self-respect," Saraswathi scoffed, rolling her eyes.
"Really? You smoke pot, too, you shouldn't talk," he reminded her.
"I don't sell it," Sara replied. "And we're not supposed to be using our powers for selfish reasons anyway, especially in ways that make them more easily discovered. Honestly, I should just snap my fingers and torch this whole thing right now."
Tommy's eyes got wide. "You wouldn't-"
"I wouldn't," she confirmed. "But I should. Besides, what would it matter, really? You could always grow them all right back. Plus," she smirked, "that amount of smoke would probably keep you stoned for a week."
Tommy laughed. "That's not how it works."
"If it only it was, though, right?" Sara replied. "The real reason I wouldn't do that to you, anyway, is because we're friends, right? We've always got along pretty well for having such contrasting elements."
"And for you being best friends with Victoria," Tommy finished for her.
"She doesn't hate you as much as she pretends," Saraswathi said. "I think she just likes arguing with you. Arguing with anyone, really. But you're her favorite debate partner. She just used to hate you because of the flirting."
"I haven't flirted with her since she came out, you know."
"I know, and she knows. Keep the good behavior up," Sara nodded as she left. "Maybe get rid of all this. Although, not before giving some to me." She winked.(less)
Alphonse Elric did not like the city, and never understood why his brother preferred to call the dirty streets his home. The place stank, of pollution and people and thousands of other Breeds.
It was never hard to find Edward - he made no secret of his address(more), a dilapidated apartment complex in the worst part of town. The place stank of vampires though, and Alphonse avoided it if at all possible.
He and his brother had lived separate for many years - but Alphonse used to believe that he understood Edward, he knew what went on in that twisted little mind of his. They had been on the same wavelength for so long, even when apart ... and now, so suddenly, his brother seemed like an entirely different person. He had made his bed with vampires, of all things - and knowing Edward, he probably even let them FEED on him. Alphonse shuddered at the thought.
However, this was one time that he could NOT avoid the apartment. Alphonse didn't climb the stairs, he sulked around on the ground floor. Even from here he could smell them, the vampires, and the scent made him ill. They smelled of blood and death, sickeningly-sweet, a scent mostly beyond mortal comprehension. It didn't seem like Edward was home, so if he hung around down here the chances were good he could intercept his brother before he got the vampires involved.
The last thing Alphonse wanted was vampires in werewolf business.
But Edward did not seem like he was coming home any time soon, and Alphonse did not want to be camping an apartment on this side of town after the sun set. It was not that he was afraid of the people around him, but he would rather avoid getting shot again.(less)