- she weaves flowers in her braid, she draws the light amidst the darkness he created
- he walks past her in her silks, peacock feathers in her hair, as she turns around, her eyes searching for his, but all he can watch is the pomegranate in her hand and its juice dripping to the floor like blood
- she sees the world from above and below, from the depths of the Barrel and the spires of Ghezen’s Hand; half of each year spent on either side of life
- she is the daughter of life, of sweeping fields of yellow wheat, the sweetest fruits, the coast of Ravka, etched into her memory alongside her mother’s scent and father’s voice
- he lives in fog and smoke, in alleys buried between houses that rise so high they squeeze out the sky between them; he sees a world painted in black and red, thrives on other people’s agony and despair
- he makes her a queen – his Wraith queen and he the king who built their court
- there was never a more fearsome thing: the girl who chose to stay in his underworld, all the more threatening because of how kind she was, how hardened she had become, how capable she was of cruelty, yet of love at the same time
- she took him for what he was, she understood the need for the Lord of Death – their world might be worse for him, but he had made Ketterdam a city in which she could fight her way out of her humiliation and hate and that was all she cared about
- he was their king, but nobody was as feared as she, nobody drew everybody’s eye like the little Suli acrobat, ruthless captain of her death-ship, fearless in lofty heights, every other Barrel boss’ envy
- she took death from him, he life from her; they complemented each other, they had to be together, join together to defy the rest of the world
- he didn’t want to be bare, to let everyone see what his life in the underworld had made of him, what death had supposedly done to him. She saw him and cradled his hands in hers, as she realised he was still human, still had a heart beating in his chest.
- her lips spoke of the summer, dripping with honey, drew him towards her, but repulsed him at the same time. Her words spoke of darkness, her eyes of revenge. They drew him towards her, too.
- she was a cracked mirror like him. Her surface gleamed silver with the moon enchanting him, but she didn’t make a secret of her past. Not to him.
- they lived in the shadows, they lived in the secret alleys of a city which was home to ghosts floating along the streets, hiding what they were, forgetting it. But they were as happy as anyone can be under those conditions. They were fighting day to day, but fighting the battles they lived for.
this is everything we know, everything- every place we’ve ever been, every person we’ve ever met, every- every place anyone’s ever been! uh, is in here. but, but, more importantly so are the immutable rules that govern the people, places, and things inside of this universe, things like gravity and thermodynamics and arcane interactions. and all that stuff, all that matter and energy and the rules that govern it, comprise this: our universe. you guys are just a handful of people that have ever seen the observable universe before, so.. it’s pretty cool right?
He didn’t deserve peace and he didn’t deserve forgiveness, but if he was going to die today, maybe the one thing he’d earned was the memory of her—brighter than anything he would ever have a right to—to take with him to the other side.
Don’t you understand
that I am not the age I was when
you left home
Don’t you understand
that I’ve changed
I was so looking forward
to you coming home
that we’d finally connect
and you’d finally see
this woman that I’ve become
but you’re hateful
and you’re mean
and you look down on me
like I’m still fifteen
And you act like you’re the queen
presiding over the kingdom of my soul
but don’t you see
doesn’t have a ruler
she is growing at a pace
than what is expected for her age
Give her a chance.
Give her love
instead of consistent patronisation
the stars out of her eyes
Give her a moment
to collect her thoughts
whether they are foolish or wise
She will learn.
You will learn.
Im not saying that Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdoms hydrated my skin, healed my soul, and watered my crops for bountiful harvest but Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdoms hydrated my skin, healed my soul, and watered my crops
Prayer to The Most Holy Theotokos for finding a husband/wife
Oh Pure Virgin, please help me to find someone that will love me with pure and unconditional love, someone that will bring me closer to Christ and to His Kingdom. Open the eyes of my soul in order to recognize him/her when I meet him/her, and do the same for him/her as well. Don’t let beauty or other external characteristics blind me and fall in love with the wrong man/woman that will break my heart, but allow this special person to find me in a moment of my life that I will be ready. Until the moment he/she finds me, keep him safe, healthy and happy. Amen.
Birthday gift for my best friend and soul mate, who might be the most excited about the upcoming film Jurassic World than anyone–at least that I know, anyway! But that’s not to say I’m not really excited to see it as well!
they wax endlessly poetic about her but make no mistake, the beauty is merely gilt, a sorry apology for the mutilations driven so deep as to crack new limbs through her body. you will ask her, hesitantly, if she will pose for a photograph; her hellsome beauty as startling as tarnished galaxies, as obscene as a lullaby sung underneath a storm of drones.
she will crack her lips into a grotesque fascimille of a smile and posture gauchely, parading her long-lost innocence like a sacrilegious relic strung alongside her pearls of infant skulls. on slow news days you will see her sordid smirk in the corner of page 3, holding up her fine fingers so you can’t miss the death tolls whose numbers serve merely to meter the orchestras of battle.
you may try to ask her for her story, but she will struggle to shape words in the tongue that should be spoken. the delicate machinations of politics and power have long ago scraped truth from her teeth. “murder” has lost its meaning, instead her shoulders will slump in defeat as she reverts to “collateral damage” and “civilian casualty ratios” instead. she ends off with a flippant joke about “just war” and you know the conversation is over.
hell? the gods have long ago abandoned her to the flames of a fury that consume her lifetimes over, whose heat lulls her into the comforting destruction of sleep; to be awoken with the resurrection of a horizon lit with bomb blasts.
the obscenity of violence has faded to the mundanity of a scream-speckled drumbeat; it accompanies her footsteps and the swing of her blood-drenched braids. her spine has been twisted out of and back into place by the grasp of politicking which lob grenades of jagged lies back and forth, her skin is lined with rope burns from the tug of war of propaganda they have torn her apart with. her skin has been mapped and re-mapped several generations over with fault lines of empires and armies determined to colonise her into fragments of flesh.
often she is forgotten. often she is reduced. at the end of it all she sits herself primly amongst the ashes of the remains of her soul and dabs the rouge from the ground on her cheeks, streaks of life animated and grotesque against her dead eyes. the narratives of history have rewritten her already; flooded her screams with rivers of ink. her alienation from humanity is comforting, at times: she would prefer to forget that all of this was possible only because of mankind itself.
(please read discussions of this post here to understand why i wrote this and how it might be interpreted)