Ruecien

((Delayed post. This evening happened a handful of weeks ago. Bad me.))

Underwater movements, bound in a ceramic coated casket. Tiny inklings of life, bubbles, trickling through the heavy body around her, only to die in a burst of tension at the surface. Such a strange comfort to be confined to the cramped space of a bathtub. Her heartbeat had consumed her senses, frightening her away from her need to indulge in her swelling emotions, hammering too fast, too strong, summoning too much to her eyes. Each beat was the echo of the tiny peck he had given her, that terrible woman. Each watery throb was a phantom touch of that crippling ache that ate away at the inside of her ribcage.

      Crimson lines on parchment skin

Will tell me tales of other men

What is it that I do, or did?

What selfless task or silent sin

To earn this charming, hungry grin?

((The formatting, somewhere along the line, got...well, bent all out of shape. Centered the alignment of some paragraphs, for example >-> *Shakes fist at Firefox* Hopefully, it doesn't make it too much of a chore to read.))

Anywhere that houses people, for a while, starts to take on a life of it's own. In a way, the wood and walls themselves mold themselves to their occupant. The owner and the roof that sits above his head soon seem to share a personality, a peculiar sort of connection between bricks, boards, and blood--with never a word passed betwixt the two. It hardly hurts when one is a mage, as well. When the boarder is within, the home truly comes to life; an individual in it's own right.

And when the people are scarce, the house abandoned? Like a seashell on a beach, the form remains, but the presence and warmth of it's life has vanished.

Normally, at least.

The days went by in short bursts, leaving only minutes, it seemed, for sleep. Héra had made so much progress on her projects and studies, lately, that it barely made time for other things when stuffed into the already crammed schedule. Her planner was full of neatly written notes and dates, times and names, codes and secret spots. All her t's could be crossed and all her i's would have their adorable little floaty-heart dots, but neatness in ink never turned her days any more orderly.

Jakobus tensed as the shadow pushed himself lightly away from the wall, slowly walking to the center of the small clearing the scholar had found himself in. Surrounded by decrepit buildings, the stench of piss, and a variety of unsavoury sounds, he felt himself almost engulfed by the living, breathing creature that was the Row – not merely a region of the city. From atop several of the surrounded houses he could make out the glint of steel meeting the sunlight, and here and there the creaking of a bow held at tension and the cocking of hammers. Troublesome, indeed.

The moon watches me, and I watch Hera. She's finally sleeping, there on the sand, curled up and at peace with the world. The moonlight on the soft waves of the ocean is a calming flow of light and darkness, and the pinpoints of stars pinned to the black velvet of the sky easily make this one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen--and it still can't compare to my Muse. Auburn waves framing her face, and that little smirk she wears in sleep or when awake, easily compete with the glory of the night itself. Even with all that I burdened her with tonight, she manages to sleep sweet and easy, confident in some secret belief that everything will turn out for the best.

Would that I were that easily soothed.

A young elf thrashes against a wooden floor like a thing gone mad.

I smile, tucking my note into the frame of her mirror before snatching my stave. A glimpse of bright green eyes and the flash of my grin dart across the glass as I limp towards the door. I know I'm smiling like an idiot. Hopefully, she'll be doing the same soon enough, when she returns.

Moving quietly and having a gimp leg tend to be mutually exclusive activities. Stands to reason.

Doing it in the dark, with only the smallest of glows from the decorative crystals in the room to guide you whilst you hobble about? Or the wane light of the pre-dawn peeking through the curtains? Peak of idiocy. Invitation to disaster.

That is, unless you've had years upon years to practice.

The stables are a well maintained area, for their purpose. I venture there twice daily, once to saddle and prepare the squirming child that is my hawkstrider, and again to return him, exhausted, to his roost. This daily ritual, performed after my routine check-in with the Sanctum, has been all that keeps me sane. Well, perhaps that is inaccurate. Jim is certainly a large help in keeping my mind in one piece, but what I experience around him is a distinct… lack. Lack of feeling, lack of care, lack of thought. A smothering void of emotion and fear, which I once craved but I now… need? Is that the right word? Need?

Jakobus :: Success has come to me after my latest experiment with my mentor. His need and his drive to be correct in all of aspects of his work has been challenged and will likely result in my demise, or a humorous hypothetical thereof. He is a man that likes control, and to be in control. There is no fairness between a student and their mentor, as he has told me all too often.

He had set limits and I pushed against them, so much that I could feel his frustration and angry gaze even with a door between us. It feels so wonderful to challenge authority like this. I see why Nikolai was so thrilled to be a devious man for so long.

Damage Control has been placed at a hold, to see how my dear teacher will retaliate. It's worrisome and exciting and makes my heart race. I do hope this becomes a moment that we may both learn and grow closer from. It will open up much possibility for new adventures of the mind.

The badlands.

Why do I always find myself going here?

I look into the distance and spy the flat top mesas in the distance, and stone pillars that look like the earth itself were taking up art. The dirt is red clay, and the consistentsy of fine powder. Hephaestion's cloven hooves dig into it easy as he steps beside a cactus to nibble on the sweet flower. I slide myself out of the saddle, and straighten the barding on his back, wincing as pain shoots up my fingers, and I give a glance to my left hand. My ring and little fingers are bound together with leather after I smashed them under this same barding. Heph wasn't used to riding with armor, But as my deliveries took me into more dangerous situations, I figured I'd be kind to him and offer him some protection as well.

I've learned many, many things since I've arrived here. Some more useful than others.

I can create a sudden, searing gout of flame with little more than a moment's notice and a brief twitch of my fingers. A spear of ice needs only the slightest thought to coalesce, then launch itself from my outstretched hand. Ranidaris' advice is giving me more control over my errant mana, and slowly, the spells are becoming more and more familiar to me. Like fletching arrows or churning butter, it's just something that must be practiced to find the best way, the rhythm, the key to doing it right and well.

I knew, some day, that I’d have to overcome my illness. I knew that in doing so I would also be overcoming a part of myself that I have known intimately for centuries. I knew it would be difficult, terrifying, and even bad for my health, and I knew it would likely take such time that I might never fully recover to the end of my days. I did not, however, pause to consider the myriad times in which this progress, slow and steady as it was, would slip backwards. I did not think my work could be undone, at least not this way.

A postman wends his way through Silvermoon, handing off letters here and there at various inns, homes, and businesses. He's a good man, wife and child waiting at home for him to finish the late-night shift, and seems to love his job. A kind smile as he knocks on doors and the cheery whistling that follows him at all other times, bright and touchingly happy, assures me of this as I watch him wandering down the darkening city streets. Nothing but good in his soul, if only at face value.

Is it wrong to hate the man solely because my apartment is one of the last on his list?

Month of Love, 18th day

Jakobus :: Although he is friendly and a rather beautiful man, he is still very dangerous in all of his strangeness, even after my trust has been given to him in full. His intent is never fully realized until the extent of his experiments come to a close, or some time thereafter. He has a good heart, but a sketchy way of doing things, and it shows too easily when he's not careful to hide it. A good heart because he'll chase after the things that are important to him, no matter their uselessness beyond his need for them. People of emotional importance (See: Aedran) are a project to him to keep after, but must be observed in person. He hurriedly chased after me as I broke into a dramatic outburst, begging me to continue our friendship. I was irrationally distraught and he simply didn't care about being right. He merely wanted me to be alright, after all was let go of. - something to keep in mind -

((The poem is 'The Waking' by Theodore Roethke, and one of my favorites. Not sure how well I managed to mesh it, but...oh well! Enjoy!))

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

                                                           I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.

I wake from pleasant, peaceful, bright dreaming to a dark room. Moros is shifting nervously, eyeing me. Waiting. His feathers are raised, and his threads are worried and strained.

Something's wrong.

Immediately, I see the threads surrounding my own body have altered. A meeting for drinks, a slip and a fall for tomorrow's adventure downstairs, all of the mundane little weaves that had gathered around me over the past few days stand eclipsed. One thread, one only, marks my tenuous connection to the lovely--

Broken?

--Ravnok girl. It burns my vision, a pulsing, dark tendril across my inner sight. It's the uncertain future incarnate, rapidly becoming the concrete now. I reach out to it, emptying myself to follow where the thread leads me, curious...

I curl up in a--well, my--niche between these two buildings, and tuck my robes securely under me to keep out the chill. I can feel Moros shifting near my shoulder, itchy little feathers worrying away at my cheek, as he tries to find a balance between feeling warm and not feeling trapped by the space. I try and soothe him, brushing my fingers idly along my friend's ruffled plumage. He already hates this place; I doubt very much I can get him to change his position on the matter. I sigh, leaning my stick up against the wall as he squawks quietly. He'd rather be back home looking for rabbits and squirrels in the Brightbough's fields, or at least somewhere away from the reek and glare and din of the city.

As it happens, it's a sentiment I'm sharing a lot of sympathy for, at the moment.