he's raised on the edge of the devil's backbone
630 Posts
Ooc — Phi
Master Guardian
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this is set tentatively and vaguely to take place after his threads on the coast.
love leaves a memory no one can steal
the knot in arturo's stomach tightens as if someone has it grasped in an unrelenting fist as he steps over the tentative borderline of the ravine and into the strath. his nightingale queen is buried at it's heart — close to the king sequoia, the residence of their brief happiness, the towering sequoia had bore witness as it stood as a tall sentry when their children were born amidst the safety of it's roots and arturo charges the massive tree with the protection of his wife's corpse in her death. it is easy albeit painful to recall the path that would take him through the strath and to it's heart relatively quickly.
when he reaches it he almost feels offended that it remains stout and proud, unchanged even while his life and kingdom crumbled to utter ruin. it wasn't fair. he had everything ...and now he had nothing. the hemlock that ...hemlock had planted upon her grave to keep out greedy scavengers, so that lotte's body may rest beneath the earth in peace is dusted with powdery snow. arturo does not draw near but stands morosely at it's edge. it is the alter and he is the priest come to pray to the goddess that slumbers into eternity beneath it. he's imagined during the journey here what he may say, a thousand things. but not a single one of those thousands of words can convey what he feels now, in this moment.
the grief rises and chokes him with a painful breath that sticks in his throat. "i miss you, my lovely nightingale." it was inadequate. missing was putting it kindly. he felt her death keenly, as if someone had ripped his heart right out of his chest and buried it with lotte's body. life would never be the same without her and he would always love her. fiercely and unapologetically. lotte ansbjørn-fearghal would always be the undisputed love of arturo's life. his ears slick back against his skull as he mourns silently, internalizing his grief lest his private moment be distrubed.
the knot in arturo's stomach tightens as if someone has it grasped in an unrelenting fist as he steps over the tentative borderline of the ravine and into the strath. his nightingale queen is buried at it's heart — close to the king sequoia, the residence of their brief happiness, the towering sequoia had bore witness as it stood as a tall sentry when their children were born amidst the safety of it's roots and arturo charges the massive tree with the protection of his wife's corpse in her death. it is easy albeit painful to recall the path that would take him through the strath and to it's heart relatively quickly.
when he reaches it he almost feels offended that it remains stout and proud, unchanged even while his life and kingdom crumbled to utter ruin. it wasn't fair. he had everything ...and now he had nothing. the hemlock that ...hemlock had planted upon her grave to keep out greedy scavengers, so that lotte's body may rest beneath the earth in peace is dusted with powdery snow. arturo does not draw near but stands morosely at it's edge. it is the alter and he is the priest come to pray to the goddess that slumbers into eternity beneath it. he's imagined during the journey here what he may say, a thousand things. but not a single one of those thousands of words can convey what he feels now, in this moment.
the grief rises and chokes him with a painful breath that sticks in his throat. "i miss you, my lovely nightingale." it was inadequate. missing was putting it kindly. he felt her death keenly, as if someone had ripped his heart right out of his chest and buried it with lotte's body. life would never be the same without her and he would always love her. fiercely and unapologetically. lotte ansbjørn-fearghal would always be the undisputed love of arturo's life. his ears slick back against his skull as he mourns silently, internalizing his grief lest his private moment be distrubed.
death leaves a heartache no one can heal
wreathed in iron and in fire
i bare my bloody teeth
and only pity makes my strike so clean
i bare my bloody teeth
and only pity makes my strike so clean
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