Femslash February!

A bit late on the draw again. Got two more prompts to catch up on in addition to this most recent one too. A Zero/Fieth piece for the "Disaster" prompt:

You knew as the sky cracked open
what would come,
where you'd go.
You knew before it even.
That's why you'd snuck out at dawn
before she and her rose, either,
and went off,
off into the woods
to better hear the song.

A funeral dirge.

Those were the words
and the faces you saw
were hers and hers
and there were others too,
oh yes,
but that image of those hordes
can't compare
to even one tenth
of seeing theirs,
not at all.

Yet knowing this,
resting with it even
as you march to your death,
yet knowing this all
you can't go calmly
when she looks at you
at the ledge
and asks
"Fieth? What's wrong?"
because you know, you do,
you know that you'll never see that face
and that she'll never see your face
and that this'll be the last time,
the very last.

And this?
This terrifies you.
What is left when the storm passes?
A man dies
crushed by the winds
in their fury
and you say a word,
sing a song,
telling them all to move, to move,
to keep blowing on by,
to keep moving on by.

But who will sing now?
Who will look to her and her
and tell them both, them both,
with all firmness, just as needed,
to be as the wind
free and unyielding, always, always,
even in this,
even in the face of grief?
Who will clasp their hands on her
gripping her shoulders
and reminding her again
that you'll sing now, sing still,
a breeze yourself.
Who will help her and she shape
the wood into pleasing shapes
fit enough to find your voice
and bring it forth with a clatter
at the window sill?

Certainly not you.

Yet as she looks
pleading
for just an explanation,
just one,
all you can do is grin
and shrug
and blow it off
with a "Nothing at all!"
before you're gone,
never to see her again.

Because you saw her
and you saw what comes of her
if she knows more than this.
You know how she chases,
how she follows
and you know what comes to her.
And you saw her
and what comes of her
if you do not go.

The world will shake to pieces,
torn apart by men who aren't men no more
and who will leave Re-Earth dead in their wake,
bodies and bodies beyond counting piled up,
but those two?
That one?
They are the weightiest bodies of them all
and so for them
more than this world you love,
you offer up your own in exchange
to answer the wind's song.

But as you go,
stepping off branch after branch
you think of the look in her eye
and you think of how you lied
and you think of what she'll say
and how she'll feel
and what she'll do.
You never kept your promises,
you never told the truth,
never ever
and yet for once
just now
you wish you had.
Just this once you wish you had,
because who will hold her close?
And who will help her with your chime?
And who will help her hug your child?

What will be left in the Holy Wind's last wake?

Will it be her,
more brilliant than ever?

You can only pray,
singing whispered words to the wind,
a final song to her,
to Zero,
your partner dear.

 

This is very late but here is my piece for the "Pink" prompt. It is a SakuRemi poem:

She loves pink, she does.
It's why she wears it
day after day.
But to see the maid
all dressed in pink?
Now that's a sight
and a funny one at that.

It clashes with her hair,
it clashes with her eyes,
and what does she wear anyway
each and every day?
Blue.
Blue on white
with a shock of green
in her silver hair.

Black is her color too,
come to think of it.
It goes well with white
and with green too,
but mostly?
It mixes well with her mood.
She smiles and she jokes, yes,
and she plays and she loves
but her mood isn't pink
nor is it red,
beyond a flash of it at the neck.
Her mood is black or it's blue;
a bit on the downside,
mellow and morose.

So while the mistress loves pink
more than any color
in all this world
and in Gensokyo too,
she can't help but laugh
and even frown a bit
when she sees her maid in it.
It just doesn't fit!

And the maid?
The maid agrees
wholeheartedly
that pink just isn't her color,
thank you very much.

 

Another late prompt. This is for "The Moon" and it's another Zero/Fieth piece:

There wasn't a moon when they first met,
as there wasn't a moon at all to meet under.
There was a night still though,
and they did meet under it that first time.
They met in the midst of forest fires too
and the cries of vampires and elves both
as the village Amonsulle was ravaged and razed,
the first disasters and deaths of many they'd see.

The one was guarded and hesitant for a human.
She stood stock still
and wore a tight, thin frown
that showed hardly any feeling at all, good or bad.
If she bore her sword in hate or help
none could tell just by looking at her.
The other meanwhile was an elf among elves.
There was a spring in her step
and hardly any tension in her shoulders.
She wore an airy smile too even then,
such that one would wonder if she worried at all.

Neither of their faces showed it,
though their hearts sang of it both: concern.
Concern for the village on fire and the elves in it
and for this world as a whole
lest it be overrun by undead hordes.
It was for this concern that they both shared
that the one was led to demand to help
and for the other to shrug and laugh
before saying, "Sure, we could always use another hand!"

There was a moon when they last met,
though it wasn't a native or natural one
but a moon made by a woman who was the one
from another tangled knot of time
that got herself tangled up in trying to save it.
They did too and so they met again
for what was the first time and also the last.

The one was now two collapsed into one,
from one timeline to another
and completely unbound from it all
a being of pure time and pure wind
that could wander through the worlds
with all the ease of a summer's breeze.
She saw her life in duplicate
and she'd seen three of the other before now.
The other was simply one person alone,
though the fourth of this same one the elf met
though the elf was the first she'd met of her
as there'd been no chance to meet her before.
There couldn't be when she didn't even exist
being quite outside both her time and all time.

Yet as they looked at one to the other
they saw over a thousand years worth of memory
in but a single instant
that neither and yet both had felt
and also had not felt
for even now as time was wound on up
there was a proper them
and that proper them had met many years ago
under a moonless night
and had spent many years together
under moonfilled nights.
It was enough to make the stoic one cry
and even the elf, normally so unflappable,
couldn't help but shed tears
as they both rushed forth to the other
to draw the other close as it should be.

They would never again meet they knew,
knew it more so now than when they last met
for what had then been the last time
at the balcony ledge before time fell to pieces
as it was pulled in tight like the tides.
This time would be the last time for certain
and they knew that for certain as they kissed
before rushing off to war once more
to save the world once and for all,
and all worlds with it.

There was a moon when they first met
and there always had been one
through some miracle of fate
that no one quite understood but all adored.
It was under this moon, natural and known,
that they both had been wandering the woods
on a simple night's stroll for pleasure
with nary a sound of death or the sight of flame,
though there was the sight and sound of another.

The one was shy and she was reserved.
She smiled, yes, but only ever so slightly
seeming to keep her secrets all to herself
and those secrets were herself as she was.
Her skin was pale as death that night
and her eyes red as blood too, a vampire,
yet she looked on at an elf in the trees
with a wariness that was unneeded.
The other neither shy nor reserved.
She was loud and she was boisterous
once she got over her shock
at having found someone in the woods
who was quieter than she
when she wanted not to be found.

The vampire gave politenesses and she shrank.
The elf gave greetings and shared her hand
and neither of them quite knew it
nor would they ever know it perhaps
but another thing was given from one to the other
on that night under the moon
both from the others that stood there then
and from the others apart from time itself:
a chance to live together always.

(As a sort of side note this thing, silly as it is, is a personal sort of closure. The lore articles for FoW just kind of stopped dead in their tracks after a point and at this point I don't think we'll be seeing an official write up for the end of Reiya Cluster's plot. So by gods I have to do it myself.)

 

This time it is neither FoW nor Touhou! It is Kencyrath and specifically Brenwyr/Aerulan for the "Silent" prompt:

They would share words, they would,
back when she still yet lived.
Sometimes the words were spoken aloud
but more often they were silent,
stitched codes hidden in careful knotwork,
the Craft of Women.

On, and she was a brat about it too,
that Knorth lady,
and she’d leave the most scandalous notes
quite in the open for all to see
both Brenwyr and the others each.
Occasionally there’d be a nervous cough
and heads would turn away from them both.

Aerulan never gloated,
not openly
as that wasn’t a lady’s custom
not even for a Knorth,
but Brenwyr could tell, she did,
and it made her fume, it did,
though she’d never say that aloud.

She missed it too
for years and years
after that one night.

So to think they’d share words again,
that was an odd thing, and pleasant.
The words were silent once more
at least on Aerulan’s part
being quite unable to speak without a mouth.
Brenwyr, however, she made a point to speak
quite intently so, she did,
as she caressed the knotted patterns
that painted her lover’s face on cloth.

She was giddy, for once.
The Iron Matriarch
barely able to contain herself
and Aerulan noted that, she could tell,
and she frowned at the silent jab
with neither confirmation nor denial
if always, always truth.

Brenwyr was though.
Giddy like a girl
barely in her youth
and yet even though she spoke now
with such intent
she could not say this was so,
not without the greatest shame.

 

MORE CATCH UP TIME. This time for the "Waiting" prompt. Ship is Brenwyr/Aerulan from The Chronicles of the Kencyrath by P.C. Hodgell. I have no idea why specifying the entire title and the author's name feel so important to me but by gods does it. Anyway. Poem:

The hours seem long
don't they?
They are.
It's been decades now though,
so what are a few more hours,
(a few more days)
in the grand scheme of things.

Not much.
Shouldn't we be grateful?

But it's been days.

Days, days
days
hour after hour
they've kept her, they've been keeping her they have
for hours for days for weeks for months for years
they've been keeping her they have they have
when they've no right to it, no right to it
No Right To It
But he is the Highlord isn't he?
He is, he is
and you are but a lady, but a lady
matriarch of Iron or no but a lady
just a lady
But he's no right to it
to her to her no
not even the Knorth boy
the Knorth brat
neither of them have the right no, not even a little
not even, no, no, NO

A day more is a fine time to wait
for something few have the chance for
in all their lives and never shall.
Trinity knows that you haven't until now.

And that's the rub, that's problem.
It is, it is, it is the problem of it of this
and who does he think he is
and what does he know what does he know?
These are not his matters.
These are not.
These are not.
These are not.

The Women's World is a closed island
full of inmates with no rights of their own
who must dance at the delight of Lords.

But that should not be, should not be
Should.
Not.
No.
It is yours,
she is ours
we knew her best, we did.
The match was made, the matched had lasted

The Match Saved Us

It did.
She did.

Aerulan.

Five hours is too long,
five days is too long,
five years is too long,
five minutes is too long,
five seconds is too long.

Too. Long.
For you. For us.
For Aerulan, for her.

Curse the boy, damn the boy.
Sham of a man, shame of a Highlord.
Rend him to shreds, to bits, to bits.
Reveal his weakness, force him forward
for keeping what is not his, for what he's no right to.
Rent asunder, body and soul,
Do it.
Make it so.

please

it's been too long.

too long

Long.

Too. Long.

 

To the surprise of no one, my piece for "Lavender" is a Sakuremi piece:

The mistress wants herself some tea
with lavender in it, she does.
So the maid sets out in the morn
with a little note in hand in her hand
describing the exact sort the mistress wants.
The name, the place, the color of the blossoms
and even this darling paragraph of tales
rambling on and on about such and such use
for this very specific lavender are all in this note.

The flowers are only found on such and such mountain
in such and such a place
at such and such a time.
You'll need to wait for days and weeks
just for a chance of a chance
to pick the flowers while they're in bloom.
Hardly any ever have the patience for it
and one man even had so much patience
that he died right there on the hill of starvation
as he waited for the flowers to bloom, the fool.

So the maid heads out on the hour
during a time when no lavender blooms
but this one sort alone, so the mistress says,
with a basket in hand and a lunch too
which she packed herself the day before.
She has the note too of course,
tucked away in her pocket nice and neat,
as she directs the maids just so
and the gate guardian too
so that she comes back to a mansion at all
after she's come back from her search for lavender
at a time when none grows at all,
save this one specific sort, so the mistress says.

The blossoms, should you steep them just right
will cure any ailment known to man,
save but one perhaps and that's an easy fix;
just pluck out the man's eye before the tea!
If you burn the leaves and the flowers too though
you'll make a poison so very potent
that even a drop of the tea hitting the ground
will bring death to the soil for a hundred times a hundred years.
There's another tale told by another man, so it goes,
that when he touched the blossoms on the hill
while looking to remember his dead wife once more
that she sprang up from the ground before him,
alive once more if only for that one night.

With this and many more tales in mind
the maid treks up the mountain
even though she must battle youkai after youkai
explaining each and every time time her mission,
which is to bring her mistress just this lavender
so as to make it into the perfect tea
and from this hill that never grows lavender
though the tales she was told swore it is so.
The youkai, each and every one, laugh at the maid
and they tell her, one and all, that she'll find none here
for no lavender ever blooms her, regardless the season.

She keeps on her trek though and at her task,
explaining again and again how she won't stray
not even a little from this or any task the mistress gives.
She tells just the same to one dog to another
and that very dog says how sad it is
to see her wandering around fruitlessly at her master's call
and how sad it is to see her willingly believe such lies,
for surely she must have noticed they were lies
when she heard the tales and read the note.

The truth is not the point of it, though.
They misunderstand that, each and every one,
even if she explains it in explicit detail
that the truth of the flower is not the point of it.
Nor is it her getting the flowers,
or is it her making a tea with the flowers,
or is it the story of the man's dead wife,
or of the ailments the tea can cure
or anything else at all of the flowers, really.
The truth of the lavender was never really the point
nor could it ever hope to be the point to the maid.
The truth of the matter was the searching at all
just to humor the mistress and ease her boredom.
The truth of the lavender was to see her smile.

The maid lays this out eight times, she does,
and in each of those eight not a one grasps it.
Some of them argue it with her
or try to dissuade her from her work
but she ignores them each and all and keeps on
until at last she reaches the fabled peak
at the fabled hour in that fabled place.
Up there at this hour when no lavender blooms
she gazes out at the scenery stretched out below
that is painted pink by the coming sunset
and it is then that she knows the true truth of it,
of the lovely lavender that grows when none blooms at all
and where none has ever bloomed before.
The mistress will laugh and protest that this is the truth
and she will claim it was all but a joke she played
to get the maid some exercise and to get herself a giggle
but the maid now knows the truth of it, she does;
that the point of the matter was never the lavender
though deep down it was lavender of another sort
as she blooms once more under the mistress's care.

 

Ok so we've got three of the four prompts I need done today. The first is a SakuRemi piece for "The Sun":

The sun,
she misses it sometimes
and wishes to see it again.
Really see it again
like she was a child
before she turned.

On those days
when the longing is fierce
and makes her want to risk
running out into the light
even though it will burn
and reduce her to ash,
the maid comes.

A parasol
is held above her head,
for hours even.
If she wants it
and with not one complaint,
never,
as the maid gives her a chance
to see the sun once more.
or at least what it touches.

That is devotion.

The next one is another SakuRemi piece written for the "Balloons" prompt:

Summer festival
and a little pink balloon
bought by the maid with your coin.

Ah! She let it go!
Tears you wipe gently away
and sorrows float away too.

The third piece is a KanaSana poem written for the "Umbrellas" prompt. KanaSana being Kanako/Sanae, a Touhou ship. I fucked up the forms. I meant it to be tankas but I ended up writing sedoka by accident and by this point it is too late to fix it:

Waiting for the bus-
a pattern many years old,
the girl is now a woman!
She still has a bag.
Umbrella too, she cautious,
and has a hint of mischief.

The winds! They pick up,
a whistling rush blows past
taking the leaves off with it.
Umbrella is raised
as she says right to the wind,
"The weather's nice, isn't it?'

Showers, patter-pat!
The rains fall down, soft and slow,
with them fall words in return.
"Just so, isn't it?"
The Kami steps forth from the wind
taking the place of a troll.

It's an old pattern
born from a child's watching-
the birth of a true knowing.
There's a new one too.
Her hand is held out asking-
a brief moment, intimate.

The Kami answers
with a hand and a kiss-
private things hidden in rain.
Soon they must leave this
as new patterns turn to old
and passes with the magic.

Treasured memories-
beautiful for they pass
like these same winds and rains do.
An afterimage
remains in place, fading out,
and springs right back, anew.

We'll find a new life,
you and me, and the frog too,
in Gensoukyou.

 

We are now officially caught up again. It's a KanaSana piece for the "White" prompt. For some context on this, white is the color associated with deaths and funerals in Japan. Haiku are also seasonal poems by their nature. For an extra fun fact, this is the fourth poem in this particular collection:

White blankets the lands-
the two had built a snowman-
And white blankets her.

 

Continuing at this thing. A SakuRemi poem for the "Damned" prompt. The judge here mentioned is Shikieiki Yamaxanadu, Gensokyo's Hell Judge. The event proper is based off a thing that happens in canon:

The Judge stands before her
staff raised to the Heavens:
a judgement!
Her sin is revealed at once,
a coldness to her fellow man.

Yet even so she stands still
face unmoved and heart too.
She cares not
and states as much in even tone.
Men meet her blades. That is all.

A frown from the Judge
who lowers her arm
as she brings forth a mirror.
She will burn for 9x9999 years
and then for another 9 by 9.

The flames do not daunt her
nor the time.
Let her burn if she must
but by the Lady's side she stays
till her dying breath.

 

Yesterday's prompt was "Safe" and I did in fact get a poem done for it on that day. Didn't type it up last night though because personal reasons. Here it is now though! It's a Brenrulan poem. This one specifically involving them in their younger years when Aerulan isn't literally fucking dead:

It started out small
as so many things do,
a joke here, a prod there.
You frowned as you are wont
and you insisted again
silently in gesture
that she cut it out.
Now.
A jester is one thing,
being an irritant is quite another.

Of course she didn't listen,
for out of all the Knorth traits
the only one she had?
It's the stubbornness,
that unyielding will.

So what started out small
grew larger and larger yet.
One more poke, one more jab
and they piled up, up
though she didn't think of that:
she was having fun.

You smiled awkwardly
before you turned to your stitches
focusing on just those movements.
Poke through the fabric,
pull back up
working towards a larger message,
a personal one
for her.
You turned to your exercises too.
Breathe,
think,
count.
Just like you'd been taught.
Just so.

Aerulan never bowed though.
She was having her fun
and she just couldn't see it,
what was boiling up inside
because she was having her fun
and you were keeping quiet
until at last it grew too much.

The mountain was stacked too high
and as she pointed at your stitches
and as she said something she shouldn't have
and as she grinned at you wide
while all the room stopped and stared,
some turning red and others muttering,
it toppled over.

Sharp.
Fast.

Your breaths were gone.
Your counting was gone.
You thinking was gone.
The control was gone.

Not gone enough that you threw your stitches
or even grabbed at your skirts
or stood up in a huff and dashed off.
It was gone though, it was,
enough so that you spoke up
loud,
fierce
with a grave intonation.

You wished her dead,
just so she'd shut up for once.
You wished her dead.

It was just a moment,
only a moment,
but that was all it took.
There was a gasp, and another.
The teacher stood up,
and the younger girls shrank.
Someone coughed
while the elder girls gestured
and Aerulan?

She finally shut up.

She finally shut up
and you remembered that night
on the stairs
when a few stray words
and one stray tantrum
brought everything to an end,
all of it
and started all this,
all of that, all of this
and there'd be more.
There would, there would
because Aerulan finally shut up.

You stood up quick
keeping a tight hold on your knots
as you rushed out the room
polite as you could manage
while voices whispered on behind you.

What hers were,
if she had them,
you didn't hear
and you'll never ask.
Never.

You'd be scolded for leaving,
you knew that.
You'd be scolded for hiding too,
but you needed to steal away,
just for a moment,
perhaps longer,
because you'd gone and done it
to the one person you wanted not to
most of all
in all this world
you had.

And Aerulan?
She wasn't like most Knorths.
Not in temperament
nor in power,
not at all
and you'd gone and done it.

If your mother had fallen.

If she had.

Then.

Then you were wordless
as you huddled up alone
under the stairs
as you tried to push it away
all of it
and you tried to take it back
all of it
even though you couldn't.
You knew how this worked.
You knew what had been done.
You were certain.

So hearing her voice,
that almost killed you on the spot
and you wanted to shout her down
though that's what you got you here at all.
You turned around even
lifting your head from your knees
intending to tell her off.
To tell her to leave, to run,
to go tell Adiraina if she must;
which she should given the outburst
and given the stairs.
Given you.

Her smile stopped your voice.

You burst into tears instead
and curled up once again,
a rambling wreck of a girl
who apologized again and again
for what you'd done,
for what would come,
for it all, all of it
and she didn't scold you
or talk of seeing Adiraina
or anything of the sort at all.

No,
she just said that she was there.
See?
Maybe her fingers tingled a bit,
but she was still there
and that was it.
She was still there,
that's what she said.

That wasn't enough.
You couldn't accept that as true
and you shook your head
and you argued
and you yelled
and you swore again and again what you knew.
Any other would have left,
either from fear of you
or irritation with you,
but she stayed right there
and she said it again:
she was there.
She was
and nothing happened.
Nothing was going to happen.
She was sure of that
and you couldn't get how.

You couldn't understand the smile
or the hand on your shoulder
or the apology she gave you
or how she insisted that she was here to stay,
that no little curse would stop her,
it just couldn't.

For a moment
you believed her
but you couldn't understand her.

Not her patience,
not her kindness,
not her anything.

You hugged her all the same.
Tight,
desperate.
You believed her you did,
but you couldn't understand her,
you didn't understand her.

And her arms wrapped around you
made you believe her all the more
and cry all the more
and you just couldn't get it
as you clung to her
frightful that she'd drop dead
right in your arms.

But you believed her.
You did, you did, you did.

A curse couldn't bring her down.
What could hope to?
She was Aerulan,
the Knorth like the sun
that smiled bright
and loved like no one else could.
Matriarchs couldn't break her,
or your cruel tutors
or the stupid girls your age,
nothing and no one could
so how could you?

How?

You couldn't.
It was as simple as that.

 

Had a very busy day yesterday so I only got to the "Vanilla" prompt today. It's another Kencyrath poem. This one is about Lyra trying to puzzle out her unrequited feelings for Jame:

Jame wouldn't taste like a vanilla cake.
Anyone could tell that at a glance,
even the Lackwit.
No,
if Lyra were to assign her a taste,
if she sat down and thought hard on it...
Well, the problem is it's too simple!
And too sweet, come to think of it.
If there was any vanilla in there
and sugar too
it'd be buried down under other things.
Spicy, sour, bitter, salty...
Something she can't really name too...
Honestly, this is all sounding like a mess
and Lyra's head spins at the thought.
What would that even taste like?
How could someone stick all that in one dish!

But that's just Jame now isn't it?
An interesting pile of seeming madness,
that you can't look away from.
Even the Lackwit can figure that out!

 

here is some v silly pearlmethyst!

 

Gods almighty we're falling behind again. Here's a quick piece for the "Hate" prompt. I'm not really too fond of it but we're just gonna go with it. It's a Brenrulan poem that also doubles as a Brenwyr<3<Jame poem:

Her is almost the same.
She has the high cheekbones,
the narrow, sharp face,
that distinct Knorth nose
and those eyes too, of course.
Large, wide, silver...
almost otherworldly, wholly unnerving.
Her build is similar too.
She's of a decent height for a woman
but she's dwarfed by Kendar
and she's thin as a reed
with barely any chest at all.
And there's her hair too,
that thick mass of black
that seems to swallow the world
and which would look so lovely
if she'd any idea how to care for it.
You'd think her Aerulan herself,
just by looking at her
especially when she's wearing her dresses,
but for everything else about her.

She's a stupid girl, really,
stupider even than the Lackwit.
She doesn't know basic manners
taught before a girl can talk
and she's no care for the secrets,
babbling off what's not hers to share,
seemingly oblivious to the insult.
Then there's her mood.
She burns fiercely, quietly
and there's a moroseness to her
and you don't think she could laugh,
not as easily as Aerulan could.
She lacks that easy joy, the kindness,
reflecting back too much of yourself.
And then there's her will.
They would both fight with you
and they both have
but there's none of the gentle care
or the fine attention to detail
and she won't come to you in the night
to listen and let you speak in the calm,
not that you would want her to.
They both turned heads
and they refused to bow
but she lacks what really counts.
She has her face and her hair
and she wears her dresses too
but she lacks what really counts.
You'd think her Aerulan herself
were it not for everything else about her.

And you've never hated anyone more.

 

Got three poems done and ready to be sent out into the world. The first one is for the "Shopping" prompt. It's a SakuRemi piece:

Sometimes the lady of the house
just wants to go out and about,
not for any need of it, no,
but for the fun alone.
So she grabs herself a parasol
and follows the maid out the door
off to do the morning marketing.

The humans shrink back and away
and she smiles wide at that,
a respect born out of fear,
while keeping a close hold to her parasol
and a close eye on the ground.
One trip is all it takes to ruin it,
both her image and her trip
and what a trip it is, she can't ruin it.

The maid has a little list
penned out in her careful hand
with all of what they need
for this next coming week.
Fruits here, vegetables there
and the bread man is argued with
before they're off to get tea,
all while the lady watches wide eyed
with wonder and glee at this.

All the more when she spots it,
a strange looking little fruit
with red skin and charming barbs
and it's just so dear and precious
that she has to have it right then.
She demands it with ease
only to have her demand denied.

It's not on the list, says the maid,
and the list is sacrosanct, Miss.
Not even a good pout moves her
because there's only so much coin
and there's only so much time.
Next time perhaps, if she requests it,
but for the moment the fruit must be left,
though it pains her to do so.

The lady can't argue with the maid in her domain.
She can certainly refuse to go shopping again though.

--

The second poem is for the "Wings" prompt. I said there was only one of two ways I could do this. It was going to be straight up wing porn or it was going to be a pretentious freedom metaphor. No other options. I stuck by that and wrote this Brenrulan thing that, magically, is not from Brenwyr's point of view. It's from Aerulan's:

Nailed to a post for years
is what death felt like.
You could walk around your soul,
creeping into well known halls
and resting in a well loved bed
but you were nailed to this post,
to a wall, rather,
from which you could look out
and see
nothing.

Nothing and no one at all.

None came to visit you after a time
and you could feel her leaving too.
The one anchor to the world you had
had flown off and grown faint
and no matter how you banged
or how loud you shouted
she was gone.
Not forever, no,
as she'd travel back at times
but even then the pull was faint
and she never visited you.

And even if she had?
Could she see you?
Would she?

Stationary as stone
more a prisoner than before,
you waited and waited
for a sign, just one,
of life, of love, of anything at all
and for years it didn't come
until at last it did
when time seemed to stretch
into an uncountable abyss.
At last life had come,
a pair of hands to pull you back out.

But it wasn't her.

It was a new girl,
a Knorth girl.

By Trinity you'd done it, you had.
There were Knorths still,
Knorth women at that.
Your death had not been in vain.

But it wasn't her
and this Knorth was morose,
clouded up by ten tons of guilt
which might not all be hers
so you thought as you looked.
But she was not her.

She did bring you to her though
and what a reunion it was.
You'd think the fury swallowed you,
shaking your soul to bits
and you were swallowed up
your banner
into hungry, jealous arms
that'd never let you go, ever again.
Those familiar, strong arms
they held you close and safe
and for a moment you felt you could fly.
No longer nailed to a post
you could go wherever you wished
born by the winds under your wings
so long as those arms held you.

Yet as sudden as they'd sprouted
they were ripped away,
right off your back
and right back to your wall
is where you were sent
with only a glimmer of her
off, off into the distance once more.

She was far from your halls
and your wall.

It lasted a day,
then ten, then twelve.
A month passed, you counted it,
until at last the days stretched too far
and too thin
and your counting went right with.

Your bed was there,
a perfect copy within your soul
but it was empty, you knew.
More so now that you'd seen her,
the one you shared it with.

They said you smiled brighter than any other.
If only they could see you now.

Wingless.

Wingless and born into the hands of another,
a Knorth just like the girl before, yet not.
He was cloudier even than her
and deep, deep within him
you could see a glance, just a hint,
of a little Ganth
grown darker than ever before.
You were no longer on your post
but you were wrested away as they wished.

Almost a package, you'd think.
The duty of women!
Funny that,
even in death you couldn't escape it.

But you were not taken away
off to strange hills and stranger halls
No, those Knorth hands bore you closer
step by step to a familiar flame
which seemed ready to burn the world
and though you couldn't move
save only in your soul
you'd think you could dance again.

Should they permit you to have this.

It started out small, distant,
a seeming pinprick of rage
but it grew and it grew
with every step your Knorth hands took
until at last the fury engulfed all
and came storming out a gate
burning brighter than ever before.

You'd seen her rage.
Many times, sometimes at you,
but never like this.

You worried your family would die
but he pulled on through.

Knorth blood is stubborn.

Stubborn Knorth hands held you still
though your wrestled as you could
caught within your folds,
for she was right there.
You could see her, hear her,
feel her
and at last and again she took you
and held you tight
and you could see another flame
that burned behind the fury.
One that was warm, sweet,
comforting.

The very reason you loved her above all others.

You were bundled up in that
all at once
and you did your best to do the same,
spreading your wings wide
and wrapping them about her
to hide her from the world
which bit at her so.

Partly this was for the boy,
but mostly it was for love of her.

She stole you away quick
stomping off into her halls
barely able to contain herself
and you not at all,
were it not for your form,
and she stole you away quick
to an unfamiliar room
that rang of her, her, just her
which seemed more familiar than even your own,
and she stole you away quick
holding you close to her chest
as she sobbed heavy and hard
at last, at last,
now that she was out of sight.

You'd wipe those tears for her face.
Soon.

You would.

And the third poem. It's for the "Gold" prompt and it's another Brenrulan piece from Aerulan's perspective:

Gold's a flashy metal
and there's more than one girl like it.
You pass by them every day
and you see them in your classes.
Resplendent, brilliant,
a sight for all to see
hidden behind those little masks.

You find you prefer iron, though.

It doesn't gleam so
and you can't shape it so fine.
The metal's more for weapons.
It's cold, hard,
and it bites through flesh,
cuts through souls.
Some weapons are more ornate,
but those are just for show,
so you think.
The sort your Kendar wear?
They're more like her.
Dependable, harsh, weatherworn,
with a bite to match her bark.

A girl once hassled you after lessons,
poking fun at your dress and your hair
until she came in
rushing the girl down like a randon.
The whole room seemed to shake,
and honestly it might have.
And the girl?
She shrank back like a mouse
before scurrying off
with her cronies in tow.
You could have fought yourself
and you were in your own way,
but when you saw her standing there
nostrils flared and soul all in a huff
you realized why you prize iron over gold.

 

low-effort pearlmethyst smut drawing because i am not creating enough for this month

Spoiler: nsfw

 

It is time to tear hearts out. Or prepare to. This is my piece for the "Blessed" prompt and it's another Brenrulan poem. I sadly can't recall if she knew about her brother's attempts to get Aerulan's contract and that would require digging through my books to fact check. But for now we'll just pretend that this was the case or that this is some sort of AU where that occurred. If you know what is coming I hope this hurts:

She could almost walk on air,
she could,
dancing with delight at the day.
Oh, she'd fought
because that is her way,
always and ever,
and who could believe it anyway?
Who?
She'd been handily beaten though,
hugged and set down
and he laid it all out,
the plan!
They'd pay a hefty price,
one perhaps too high,
and the battle would be long,
perhaps too long for her
but for once,
just once,
it seemed everything would turn out.
No one being shuffled off,
no one falling down the stairs,
no one and nothing no how ruining it.
It would just be her,
it would just be them,
forever and more it would, it would.
To tell Aerulan...
to hide it as a secret...
(but not as a lie)
both were tempting options,
both would mean the world
because this?
This was the world, her world,
and for once it was spinning,
just right, just so.

 

Today is "Split" day and that means it is the day for yesterday's sister piece. I'll be putting it behind a spoiler since it shows major character death and what not. Just so people know here the pieces also have linked titles. The one for "Blessed" is titled Her Whole World. This one is titled Comes Crashing Down.

Spoiler: people die and shit ok

It all started with that girl,
her cousin, Tieri.
How much time had she spent with her now
and how much with you
in comparison?
Perhaps that's not what you meant to ask.
No, perhaps what you meant to ask,
perhaps,
was if the two of you could talk.
Just bring up the matter
and spend some time together.
You had something more reasonable in mind.

She says she'd need to see Tieri tonight,
there's something special going on
that needs to be tended to
and she was quite sorry,
so, so sorry
but really it needs doing tonight.

You meant to ask,
you had,
really,
to give her time,
a chance,
just to talk,
just to explain,
just to talk it out
but she's got somewhere to be
with Tieri,
always with Tieri.

Why Tieri?
Well?
Are you two not sisterkin?
That is the arrangement, no?
That's what the Matriarchs planned,
that's what you were put into,
what you'd grown into,
what you'd come to know and love
and then there's this other girl.
Tieri.
Of course it's Tieri, of course.
It's Tieri because it always is now.
Is this her sisterkin now?
Because it's certainly looking like it!

And she can't even take one day
one moment, one night
to not bring up that girl
and run off with that girl
and fawn over that girl
and replace you with that girl.

She laughs!
Because of course she laughs!
She always does.
Just laughs them off,
any concerns you have, any upsets.
Silly Brenwyr with her silly concerns
and her silly, silly feelings!
What's not to laugh at, really?
Are you really that hilarious,
so much of a joke
that you're mocked even in your own room?

You yell.
At her, at Tieri, at this whole mess.
How could she, how could she?
Just again and again
always with Tieri, always with laughing,
always, always
and she doesn't even challenge it
because she never, ever does,
never at all in all her life
because she can't give you the decency
of taking your seriously for five seconds
so why now? Why would she?

Of course she won't, of course, of course,
so you yell at her the more
hoping to force her to fight,
so that just this once
she'll actually take you seriously
and actually respond in kind
or at the very least hold you down.
Brant would, he would,
he always does,
that's why you love him, you do.
He's a good brother
who picks you up and holds you
and sets you down and tells you
and he doesn't let you run rampant,
he doesn't, he won't, never,
because he knows, he understands
but her?
No, no, of course not.
That'd require her to have a Knorth bone,
so she'll just sit there
and let you do as you please
and then she'll run off with Tieri
to do Trinity knows what
with a girl that isn't even her sisterkin,
not at all, not at all
and you'll just laugh this off,
you will,
days later you'll both laugh
and it won't mean anything,
not a single thing,
not at all, not at all.

And she won't make you stop.

You'll kill her
at this rate.

Fear runs through you
that tempers the frustration.
No, no it taints it
making it run silver
and bitter, cold, cold, cold,
so you leave.
You storm off with a last word
only to hear her laugh
because of course she does.
Laugh, laugh, laugh it up.
Of course!
That's the thing to do here.
Not run after you,
not tell you off for slamming the door,
no, nothing of the sort, nothing at all,
and she's just going to run off with Tieri,
because of course she is.

Another girl sees you as you pass
and her friend whispers
so you stare her down
until they quake and scurry off.
Let them talk,
let them all talk
and she certainly will.
You though?
You've got the good sense to leave, to hide,
to wait this out
and maybe
maybe she'll apologize.
Maybe.

Hours pass.
Slowly.
You've not heard from her
or from anyone else.
Not even Adiraina.
The hours pass
and they pass slowly.

You were certain
that she'd apologize
or at least come and check
after that whole thing.
You rarely get this bad now,
rarely,
so shouldn't it sink in
that it's important,
serious,
important
like when Brant grabs you
or Adiraina
or anyone sensible?
It should.

Surely Tieri can wait.
You're sisterkin!
You share her bed!

But the hours pass
and they pass slow
and you've not heard from her,
not at all,
not even from another,
not even a messenger
or an angry tutor,
no one at all.

Is Tieri really that much more important?

She doesn't share her bed like you do,
she doesn't talk with her like you do,
she doesn't understand her like you do
or help her through her moods
when she has them, no,
she's just Tieri! Just Tieri!

And she'd rather off with her
even as the hours pass
and even after that show
and even after you left.

The hours pass and you hear her
at last,
you think,
on the winds that whistle.

But why don't you see her?
Why don't you feel her?
Why does she call from afar?
You pay her no mind.

If she can't be decent and apologize,
and in person no less,
then she gets no decency back.
Why should she?
Especially with how she's crying.
Oh Brenwyr, help me, help me!
Please come help, Brenwyr!
And with all the screeching, Trinity, that.
Does she think you an idiot?
Yes, let's just play a prank!
We don't need to apologize to you!
No one ever does!
You're the unreasonable one, always,
so who even needs to come down
and say sorry
and talk it out
or do anything at all!
Not her, no! Not anyone!

You snort and turn to your stitches,
praying for her to shut up for once
and quit with her games
just for once.

The joke's grown old
but she keeps at it
with cry after cry, pleading,
and distracting you.
You've knots to stitch,
you've no time for her jokes
and you wish for her to shut up
just for once,
that's all you want,
or at least a sorry
and she won't give you either
as she the winds rage and rage
whistling insistently,
shaking the window
and you've grown tired of them too
so you thrown down your stitches
and you rear up at the wind
and you tell him to shut up
and please, if you could, tell her too.

But she won't.

She won't stop.

She won't stop screaming.

She won't stop screaming and she's upended something.

She never does.
Never, ever.
Not matter if she's mad,
no matter if she's sad,
she never does that,
never, ever.
That's you,
you're the one who does that
and now it's her doing it.
What it was you don't know.
A table, a chair, you don't know
but you do know, you do,
that she's never thrown something.
Never in anger, never.

The wind, he throws open the window
and you begin to sprint.

She's never done that,
never,
and she's never cried like this,
never,
not even as a joke
and you've been ignoring her
you have,
because you've been a bull
you have.

You run past a lady
who asks you to stop
and compose yourself,
I mean really,
but you pay her no mind
because she's stopped shouting
and you don't know why,
because she's finally shut up
and you don't know why,
you don't.

You don't until you throw open the door,
until you look into the room,
until you see the disarray,
until you hear the gurgles.

You don't until you run to her side,
until you scream out her name,
until you see the red at her neck,
until you see her grasping at air.

There's nothing.
There's nothing.
No healers, no bandages, no training.
There's nothing.
There's nothing.
No killer, no weapon, no explanation.
There's just her on the floor
and you picking her up
and you shouting for help
and you cradling her body
and her grabbing at your arm.

The grasp's weak,
her words can't come up
though she's trying,
she is,
and you can't read it
but you tell her to stop it,
to keep quiet
because that might help,
that might slow the bleeding,
you don't know,
you don't know, you do know
how her chest is seizing,
how she's struggling to breath,
how her grip's growing weak,
how she can't hold up her head,
you do know what that means.

You've seen it before.
Not with a slit throat,
but you've seen it before
with a paralyzed chest.

No one comes,
not fast enough
and soon no breathes come
none at all.

Her grip is loose,
her grip is failing,
her grip is gone,
but yours is tight.

The tears are there
just like before
and you mutter over and over
how you take it back, you do, you do

But you can't.

On a happier note here's a short poem for the same ship for the "Blue" prompt that I did earlier today:

Contrary to popular belief
you aren't always happy.
You've your blue moments too
and on those days
you thank the Matriarchs
for pairing you up with her
because she's so often moody
and she gets it in a way you don't.
So when you're feeling blue
she comes right over to you
and pulls you close,
literally or otherwise,
and she helps you through it
because contrary to popular belief
she's quite in control
in ways that you aren't.

 

Guess who's almost done! I am! Got just one more poem to write but I got to be in a mood for it. Got two of them done though. The first is a very short SakuRemi thing based off Silent Sinner in Blue/the one ending of Imperishable Night for the "Space" prompt:

We're going to the moon we are,
you decided that last night
when you stared up at the fake moon
and when the madness hit.

The maid, ever dutiful, bows to your whim,
though thinking on it again
she's really not sure how this will work
and what are half the things you ask for?

But you're going to the moon, you are,
the whole family in fact, even the guard,
and that bookworm and your sister too
but most especially the maid.

Now quick! The tube!

--

Second one is a Kencyrath fic. Specifically a very onesided Kallystine<3<Jame poem for the "Princess" prompt:

That fucking Knorth whore,
she did this to you, she did.
Your face is wrecked beyond ruin
and your reputation went with it.
Trinity to think girls will sing her praise
for you sent the princess right packing,
right back to her father, you did.

Oh, father,
he will be so angry won't he
as he recalls you and hears tell
of how you've gone and fucked up
ruining your chances of ever getting back
right into the Blacklord's bed chambers.
Years of scheming and scouting,
years of gathering materials,
years of lawful lies planned out neat
and all gone because of that Knorth girl
who crawled out from the wastes
to bring the whole world crashing down
right on your family's head.

You think of her at night,
and that scare you left her
on that pretty, pretty thing face
and you hate her all the more for that.

 

SOME TASTY PEARLMETHYST/PEARLROSE ANGST FOR UR SOUL. (Mind the tags!)

 

I only just saw this, but thank you so much!! :D