“Then she must be a quite sadistic fair lady. Of course it doesn’t mean I don’t like this suggestion, this could be a new interpretation."
If she were to say where and when she heard and learnt that song for the first time, her answer would be unsure: her feeling was that she has known the melody ever since she was in that world, however it was clearly false. Perhaps it happened when she was taken from the institution, when she was the last one left; probably those rhymes spoke to her, revealing her something about herself and the place that shaped her. It took many experiments and different materials in order to create a reliable bridge, and that would be she, whether the wood and clay were all the children that died. Still it was impossible to create something indestructible and eventually she would have fallen down as well, it was just a matter of time, days, months. After all, a tool isn’t meant to last forever, and new ideas and components to make a better one could be found at any moment, a tool is replaceable.
Effectively, she would have preferred to be both the fair lady and the mastermind, nonetheless, no matter what she could tell herself that was not her reality.
Maybe –– she was nothing but wood and clay as well.
“You can find several of these little songs if you’re interested in them. I must say I find it a curious hobby, though not the worst I have ever heard of." Was the end of the day the time for bizarre encounters? That field wasn’t really her forte, thus she couldn’t really think of other suggestions, she had been busy all her life doing something else, and in the end she never had spare time for activities such as poetry and the like. It didn’t mean she never read anything, that wouldn’t be true, simply she never felt so interested that she felt the prompt need to focus on it properly enough. "It’s also not ordinary to find a random person intrigued by this kind of subjects. No one ever cared to inquire me about the Fair Lady, I’m pleasantly surprised." And she hummed it quite often in various occasions, although she couldn’t recall anyone questioning it: whatever, it was fine also if they actually believed her to be a bit out of her head.
“What’s your name?"
As soon as she spoke her question, Five regretted doing it: she went with the flow and indulged herself with her curiosity, she allowed herself to be easy-going and forget for a bunch of minutes the reasons why she was there, albeit she couldn’t possibly afford it. It was too late, she already asked and she could do nothing about it: she left down her guard for a moment there, didn’t she?
“I am in love with things that are open to interpretation. You can put it another way, of course; you always can. I admire those who bear that gift. The gift of interpretation.”
He had warbled to Zack once. In pondering the mystery, in quoting portions of archaic texts as if it were some unanswerable authority of some point of morality— all having been part of a grand play of beliefs that had the entire world anticipating the closing chapter. Divinations would keep coming as long as one kept questioning them. Admissions steeped in legends of hope; of mystic homes and fairy garlands whom garnered each acceptance and assumption with some sort of conflicting ideal that troubled many a waking dream. Aye— there had been a point in his life, a point he remembered in the groves of effulgent sage where the breezes sang between the drooping mastery of the willow-dell, wherein his childish fancies first met poetry and its brassy intelligence in the heavy, many-paged form of LOVELESS. It were the day a child lost himself in the former grave place of alder ‘pon the wreathes of mossy stone; stanzas of reverence and ruin far too seductive to have him look away.
The ramblings of a summery childhood would not last, however. Words were forsaken ‘pon frontlines cloven by the altercation of east and west, never a bone of contention that would snap the wills of elders whom chundered atop the steel of their battle-podiums ringed by a sea of war-mechs. Songs were substitued by the hiss of fire-flowing iron that would consume the shallows of clarion waters, whose sulphur-flakes would orchestrate cracks and pops to speed up the charred camber of trees as they burst into flame. A child soldier, under these conditions where the position of his mind was exigently doomed by the horrors of the bloody vale, would hear no more nursery rhymes. There was only harshness and discordance in the endless chain of orders. A continuity more marvellously supernatural to him with the language of warmongering ones, whose sentences were never guided or drawn to the next with magniloquent metaphors and sweets that a fledgling poet could indulge.
So here he luxuriates. Here he is free. A man still a child.
"I live to impress, of course. Rhymes, especially the little ones, have always interested me. They are vague, brimming with possibility, and teasing all whom know of its mischief to roll with the words and craft their own tale. They hide treats for the quickest— even more for the wise." He drawls; the uncanny laughter that italicizes the essence of his harmony one that reverberates within the pocket of this night-scape as he proves himself a man who wouldn’t delve deep into the riddles of literary works if there were no intellectual profit to be derived. Aye— he were a glory-hunter. The illustrious fire-earl whom commandeered his own steps to cerebral and spiritual greatness through all mediums, and one whom could soothe all militant drums into a more uniform rhythm if he tempted it.
"My lady, do not be alarmed." His majesty extended to the reading of body language; to pick up the hitches of lung and heart when one’s blunder had them a servant to circumstance. He bequeaths a smile — rouge and enlivened by levelled ivory — before he occupies himself with the maddened rush of a passing train, in which the moist and prismatic torrent of its interior lights would have it whiz on like a freight of stars.
“— My name is Genesis,” he fails to look away, “Genesis Rhapsodos. May I know yours?”
ooc: Activity has been sorta spotty this weekend due to me being sucked into video games and catching up with a lot of anime welp. Everyone should be writing at their own pace here anyway. I’ll be on in a few hours to continue with drafts/chat with people about plots/and starters.
❝We? Go together? I think you’re mistaken, I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU. Mud won’t be the only thing I’m covered in when I’m done. I’m going to wear your internal organs like armor to the coronation. People will ask me what I have on and I’ll say all three layers of GENESIS’ FUCKING DISGUSTING SKIN.❞
These heathen souls— of course Hell welcomed it. Hell of Earth, Hell of Gaia, Hell of All.
A blur— the world. This entire world some unforgiving stage that sapped away all that made him grand. His war accoutrements, the bills and byrnies that sprinkled flesh with eternal marks of struggle, were ineffective due to the water’s absence and rendering him utterly and stupendously weak under one whom was more bravely fitted out. She were closer to the Earth. Her general perception not weighed down by whatever energies that seeped into his mind and obscured the most spectacular of his meticulous plots, and one whose limbs were out-eager, a vessel of precocious magicks, that could still function undisturbed by whatever whispers warbled subdued screams into the shell of his ears. Aye— he had become a blind man; a deaf and still man. Stiller than the pale lordliness of the ash-tree whose idle sways were theatrical displays of fire-white over the expanse of a green world; impartial to the knighthood of the glens. Aye— he were stiller than such. Locked and refused; his own powers and strength crippled by the annular successions of apparitional fangs that bore against his conscious and done away all the flames of anarchy that he could have easily summoned to rebuke her own reprimands—
It made him feel sick.
Embarrassment, exasperation, envy— all these faring into the flood’s sway of his abhorrence; morphing and christening themselves into disgruntled swells of anger, adversity and ambition. This world kept taking away. The hazel-spotted mud that cushioned weakened legs another extension of its cruelty as everything, even the specks and bold smudges that smeared incomprehensible calligraphy across his cheeks, were laden with that same sadistic mass far more ruthless than that of Gaia. Even the airs, the uncanny oxygen, was affecting the fervor of fire-conduits and more, consummating its mortal desire to have every ounce of his being at the mercy to the forces at work.
And so that pride that always swelled at his core, the one that she habitually mocked at the dawning of all their pointless reunions, was swirling into an abyss of muted despair as every flick and apathetic flare of her gaze shot torrents of acerbity into his direction. Aye— their place on the sill of life would forever be adorned with the conflict that their ego brought forth. Both cantankerous, both fuelled by dishevelled infernos that they could conjure to the tips of dragon-slaying hands. It were difficult for one to imagine a situation where they were not at each others throats. They mocked one anothers failings, even the meagre, their self-worth high above their heads when, in fact, they both meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. They were repulsive. Smitten by glory and in-love with the breadth and brilliance of their own out-dated talents.
They laughed at each other. They beat each other. They were out of control.
He expected her to fight back, but misjudged his own handicap.
That aforementioned weakness, the one that drills holes in his arms and leaves him breathless even on these short hikes, had left him haltingly slow and ill-prepared. It comes like lightning. A black sheep separated from its meandering flock; wreaking havoc down his spine and winding his lungs the moment his back made contact with the earth. He hears the squish of verdant waste first, then the fly of unseemly orts and oddments of chewed leaves and hardened dirt clotting the sky above him before the view is invaded by the fulgent emeralds of dual-irises. It’s volcanic; the petulance and peevishness that mars a countenance that was previously decked with the lavish twines of diamonds that undoubtedly would have lost themselves in the sea of rot that they fought upon, his lower legs feeling the point of stilettos whose cause was far more aggressive than the harsh gestures of sweetbrier. She would remain ignorant to the sort of suffering he was feeling now. The black aileron that he oppressively kept contained ‘neath aching scapula forced against networks of bones that should never regard it, inducing pockets of numbness to taint and temper once dexterous joints as his features contort into all expressions of agony. He knows, knows so exceptionally well, that she would love this sight. The boastful fire-earl, once teeming with confidence as he slammed her head repeatedly into the ground that adored her, was now writhing and despondent under his victim; made heavier by gravity and no longer some dainty little lass he could throw over his shoulder.
He did not want to scream. He did not want to acknowledge the wails of his wing—
— but he could not move. He has never felt so helpless before.
Her mimicry is adhered, but he cannot respond. His eyes — once demonstrative like maelstroms, of thunder-clouds clipping low-trailing clap of the tempest — could only stare into a blurring face framed by the matted purples and the soiled whites of her semblance as she breathed and bellowed obscenities into ears becoming more and more deaf. The Earth’s favoritism assisted her triumph with the legions of all those things that despised the presence of something that should not be here. He felt as if he were trapped beneath constantly forming layers of hard-stone, all high-strung by their wretched desire to flatten and lay waste to cosmic objects that flew in from rival worlds, ready to squeeze out all essence of life until their land was untainted. His hands and legs could not longer function. His mind currently flitting between what it should really worry about now filling with alarmable swells of apprehension that boomed with each burst of her tongue. And they were words that would dull the inconstant shine of his scrutiny. Beckoning the lions and tigers of war to come forth and ravage him when he was at his weakest, taking advantage of the opportunity, as the sudden thoughts of him being here sunk beneath the hysterical pops and pants that his hypersensitivity ferried.
He was now choking. She was strangling him.
Aye— the effects of everything, in a delayed reunion, would suddenly increase by tenfold. Sounds that were meant to be quiet, like the splatter of gunk and the far-off twitter of a song-bird, would join with the earthquakes of sound that brimmed his head with cacophonies of nonsense. The colours of the world: they too would become unbearable. The blanched pinks of all her bodily imperfections bleeding into the increased vividness of her hair, blinded by the fluctuating opacities of her eyes as everything brightened and lost itself in the creeping blur of white that left him undiscerning of his plight. Destitute of vision and deafened by the loud war of things: Genesis, for the first time in his life, wanted to concede. His unresponsiveness does him little favours. The weakening of her hold only delivering bone-crushing knuckles to send another blow of wind-cloven rage into all his senses, blood welling up at the peak of his nose before he can feel the trickle of sanguine spreading luscious and iron-ridden tastes over the bloated wave of his upper-lip. He knows not where he musters the energy, and perchance the courage, to lift a hand to wrap weakly around one that still held all his words. Shaking intermittently, the spasms multiplying when she forces his skull deeper into the rising graves of sludge and soot, and tightening only minutely when she blocks secondary airways with silt, clay and fingers barbed with resentment.
He can only hope, for once, that she realizes. Perchance she expects his fight, but no fight can come. She took advantage of his isolation. He is beaten.
ooc: Eyyy, I am awake and it’s the weekend and I’m probably going to just be sitting in my drafts typing away and I know I still have starters to write but I’m not sure when I will get to them because I have anime to catch up with and other things to do woot.
ooc: okk— I’m at work right now but just thought I’d leave a note that I have a few multi-para/novella stuff still in my drafts and I’ve been going around plotting with some folk and still have starters to write. For those who may have just followed, I work 45hrs a week, which means I’m very slow during the weekdays now //shot. Be sure to check out my guidelines, my about, my threads page (for those concerned about a thread) & if you want, my personal blog is stalkable too!