Introduction

#115

A/N: Inspired by a Tumblr post with the line below which is in quotes, but I can’t seem to find it

“Love isn’t always pretty.” But the abstractness of it, the chaos and life and joy that it seeps is what keeps us alive. It doesn’t have to pretty to be adored. It just has to sustain us. 

But we can also make it pretty. We can make it pretty by first healing ourselves so that we do not become rabid beasts the minute we are shown a morsel of affection. We do not treat it as an alien, foreign thing, but rather learn to love affection as we are loved. 

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

Letters of Desperation - Gwynriel

Part 1 - Azriel | Part 5 - Azriel | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

Word Count: 509

My precious warrior,

Surely it must be a crime to make a five hundred year old Illyrian cry, and yet here we are. But I will admit that I sobbed upon reading your letter like never before. My tears did not stop, even as I am writing to you now. I apologise for any dark spots on the parchment, my love.

I truly have no words, Gwyn. Truly. No words, save for this immense aching and longing in my chest that increases every moment we are forced to spend apart. This chasm in me; this hole, it only makes me wish for your presence, even more than I already do. 

I had not known such unconditional support and love existed in the world, least of all concentrated in such large amounts in the heart of one person as they are in you. I had not known how full of light you were until I was blinded by it, awed by the glory in front of me and stunned by its briliance. I will admit, it took some getting used to, but now I can look at the light, if not for a long time then at least for a little while and not consider myself completely unworthy. It is a process that is taking far longer than I would have liked, but it is a process nonetheless and so I must be patient as I have been patient with love.

I must learn to be patient with myself, and I have no doubt that you will stand by me always.

I am learning to rest, learning to love, learning how to thrive, learning how to simply be, because I had not been living until I met you. Not truly. I was an empty shell of survival, a hollow husk that encased my body but had no soul. A being that wandered, searching for its purpose, until it found you. 

While the fire that is embedded in my memories destroyed a part of me, your fire ignited my own. Those flickers of light, those initial, weak sputters came together to form such a raging inferno, one that burns only for you, I will be surprised if I do not burn along with it. I will be surprised if it does not swallow us whole and leave nothing but ash and ruin in its wake.

But I do not mind. I will burn happily; I will die happily, knowing I was someone who got to spend even a moment with you and consider you an integral part of my life.

Perhaps this is ironic, coming from a male who spent the better part of his life fearing fire, to say that I was entranced by a being of such passion, such love, and such unending blazing. But I have learned to love, learned to love you and life and all the wonderful things it has to offer.

I cannot wait to experience them with you, and I can only hope that you want the same with me.

Your eternal love,

Azriel

Part 6 - Azriel

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

#62

A/N: The first sentence in quotes is by Enrique Gonzalez. Everything else is what I've written from my own imagination based on this quote.

“I give it up to you, here is my heart, here is my blood.” Do with it what you will. Step on it, crush it, blow it to smithereens. And still I will love you, as the waves love the shore, incessantly, without purpose or reason. I will come back no matter what. No matter that you are not good for me, no matter that every interaction with you leaves me breathless, and panting, and the absurd and overwhelming need to see you again. No matter that I must heal from every time I see you. I shall sacrifice it all to see a glimpse of you, a glimpse of us, a glimpse of what could have been or never was. 

Enrique Gonzalez Martinez, from a poem titled “Last Journey”, featured in Anthology of Mexican Poetry

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Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

All asks are welcome!

I wanna know what people assume about me because of my tumblr.

Put an assumption in my ask. I’ll confirm or dispute it. I’m not gonna be mean or anything, I’m just very interested.

#30

The last thing I want is to fall for someone again.

Why, you ask?

Because the first time I did, I had my heart broken so thoroughly that it might never again recover. Because the pain of rejection and betrayal hurt me so deeply I have allowed it to fester into a wound. My heart longs so terribly for someone to call my own, yet I know that falling once more is not an option, and that I will be loveless for the rest of my life should I not overcome my heartbreak. How painful it is to long for something that I might never have; let it be both the bane of my existence yet also the only reason I live.

And then I wonder if waiting will be worth it at all. Because what scares me the most is that it will not, that I will have suffered and bled and cried and wrecked myself so completely, yet it will have amounted to nothing.

It is these moments that I begin to question Life, and God Himself, for what Creator would allow His children to bleed a thousand different colours and watch without helping, or at the very least, wanting to help? Some days I wonder whether God truly exists, and whether or not happy endings still exist, like in those stories I was told as a naive child. Lately, I have come to realise that this sort of future is meant only for the stories, fables, and myths, yet somehow never for me. If it was, I would not have gone through the hardships I was forced to.

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A Lesson In Façades

AO3 | Nesta Week 2025 Masterpost |

@nestaarcheronweek

Prompt: Day Two - Mask (Nesta wielded the mask in ACOSF, but she's also an expert in hiding her true thoughts and feelings. What does Nesta wearing a mask mean to you?)

A/N: This submission deals quite heavily with negative self-talk, mentions of mental health and recovery, and Nesta’s not-so-great relationship with the Inner Circle. Please read with caution.

Word Count: 4155

Nesta heaved, expelling the contents of last night’s dinner into the toilet. Sounds of her retching filled the chambers, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not as she shivered, trembling, and gripped onto the porcelain for dear life, knuckles white and gasping for breath.

She was sure she looked like a stray; a heathen hauled in from the ragged streets and the dirtier, rougher areas of Velaris. Matted hair, dark circles under her eyes, and an increasingly narrow frame had become common for her as she lived in perpetual numbness. She’s not even trying. Her sister’s cold words as Nesta overheard them, and it was then she felt a flicker of rage. A small ember, but it was snuffed out just as quickly as it had come alight.

She hadn’t found the energy to be able to care these days. Not for the city she lived in, not for her sisters, and certainly not for herself. She wouldn’t even know where to begin should she wish it. Maybe Feyre was right.

Nesta somehow managed to get to her feet, make it to the sink, and rinse her mouth out. The foul taste of her own regurgitation sat in her mouth like an iron claw that refused to loosen its hold on her. Swallowing a healthy amount of water she would no doubt end up retching later anyway, she took a seat beside the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up nearly an entire wall. 

Curling her knees to her chest, she looked out at the laughter and joy and life teeming from the city below. She could see eager patrons encouraging potential customers to enter their ridiculously priced restaurants or vendors attempting to haggle prices and selling useless knickknacks much the same as the ones her father had made. 

Velaris, Feyre had mentioned to her briefly, and had refused to elaborate. Nesta hadn’t bothered to ask. What would it matter anyway, if her bastard of a brother-in-law was bound to throw her out on her ass whenever he felt like it? It certainly wasn’t worth getting attached to, and it wasn’t like she planned to go outside and explore the city anytime soon. 

You dragged me into this mess, this horrible place.

I am not a thing to be controlled by you.

I won’t go.

None of it had mattered, in the end. She’d still been forced, kicking and screaming and crying and pleading to be left alone, but she’d still ended up in the House of Wind like a petulant child that refused to listen.

The House of Wind. Where she’d been contained and watched Elain destroy herself, her sister ready to jump out of the red-stoned mountain as she deteriorated further. Nesta’s bones chilled at the memory, and she fought to suppress them before she another bout of panic settled so deep into her she wouldn’t be able to get it out. Her breaths turned shallow, and her eyes refocused on the wall beside her. What she’d thought would have been a sanctuary, a place for her and Elain to heal, had now become her prison.

No way to leave, save for the ten-thousand steps leading down to the city itself that would likely kill her if she tried. Or flying with Cassian, then winnowing, said a small voice in the back of her head that she promptly shut down. The point was, she was trapped, and it was useless to come up with elaborate escape plans that would encourage Rhysand’s already bloodthirsty attitude towards her. She wouldn’t be surprised if he requested for her head on a pike, simply because he could.

Despite having…whatever powers she had, despite being High Fae, there was something in Nesta that cowered upon the sight of Rhysand. Violet eyes that seemed to contain the stars themselves were unnatural on a number of levels, and the ethereal, unnatural grace that he possessed terrified her. It took efforts to clamp down on that fear lest it show, lest he scent it like some sort of rabid animal.

It was the same feeling that had overtaken her at that disastrous High Lords’ meeting. Fear, so thick and cloying that it choked the very life out of her, until she was breathless and dizzy with anxiety as she fought to keep her cool. No one had noticed that day, how she’d felt. No one ever did.

Feyre might have known about her splurges in the darker areas of the city; seedy taverns and pubs that she went to solely because of the music, but what she didn’t know was what Nesta was feeling. I understand how you’re feeling. Hollow words making up hollow promises that made even hollower relationships. Nesta was surprised theirs hadn’t crumbled yet, though she supposed it wasn’t long before that happened. Perhaps it was better if she burnt that bridge, too. What would it matter in the end, if they were all the blame her?

How was she to explain to anyone what was wrong? Did she even know what was wrong? Everything, that voice crooned again, latching onto the vulnerable, wounded parts of her mind like a parasite determined to suck all the life out of her. Nesta tried not to dwell on the fact that it was succeeding, burrowing itself deeper into her mind with every passing day.

Everything. Your personality, your failures, your inability to form relationships. You barbed, thorn-tongued witch. You failed your father. He might not have cared for you when you were younger, but he did come to save you. You hated him, but he came, and you failed him, just like you failed Elain when you couldn’t protect her or Feyre from having to hunt. You’re a failure.

Nesta shut her eyes, attempting to keep the familiar tears at bay. All it took was one crack for the entire dam to come crashing forward, and who knew how many tears Nesta had shed these past few months?

You could have been one less mouth for your family to feed had you married that Tomas Mandray. You knew he was bad, but at least Elain or Feyre wouldn’t have ended up with him. You wouldn’t have been a burden. 

She dug her nails into her palms, relishing in the sharp sting as she fought to keep her breathing even. Breathe, she’d instructed Elain every time she was on the verge of a panic attack. In, out, in, out. Do it with me. Her commands were laced with nothing but concern then; concern for her sister and worry that she might find her mangled corpse thousands of feet below if she finally decided to jump.

Now, Nesta’s words to herself were cold, commanding as she chided herself. Stop crying. You have no reason to cry. Stop this.

Nesta couldn’t tell if it was her voice or her mother’s, telling her to keep her emotions at bay.

A lot of that seemed to be happening these days. The lines between reality and her nightmares seemed to blur, even more so when she drowned herself in alcohol. Her head spun the more she drank, but she knew that she’d never felt more free, more uninhibited than when the faerie wine was in her bloodstream. It was stronger than human wine, but it was one of the reasons she favoured it.

Oh, how Nesta longed for a drink now. It would help whatever she was feeling, subdue it to a dull ache that allowed her to revel in the wild debauchery and raucous music playing in the bars she frequented. Seeing the familiar patrons and bartenders, having her usual game of cards, gambling…her hands itched to do it again, if only to stop herself from collapsing entirely.

The alcohol would make her more palatable, easier to digest. Maybe some of her sharp edges would be dulled, maybe she wouldn’t feel her wounds. She’d do that until they stopped festering and lying there infected, unwilling to heal as she simply stared at the blood pooling down her body. The blood would clot eventually, until she’d have another outburst that would lead to more wounds. Nesta wouldn’t be surprised if her arms and legs were all covered in scars by the time she made it to her grave. Maybe they’d be a reminder that whatever she’d endured had been real, and not just a fantasy she’d made up inside her head.

Maybe that would finally be enough to get that writhing creature inside of her, whatever it was, out. She only hoped that it would stay out once she got rid of it and wouldn’t ever find a way back in.

Nesta wasn’t sure she’d be able to survive something like that again.

✦ ✦ ✦

Sunlight streamed in through the window, bright and piercing, and Nesta blinked her eyes open. She’d forgotten to close the windows last night, and she turned over to the other side in a futile attempt to get a few more minutes of extra sleep.

The House, however, seemed to have other plans. Tugging at the blanket she’d curled over her head, it managed to win the battle between it and an extremely disgruntled and sleepy Nesta. 

“Seriously?” She huffed to it as she lay on her bed in shorts and a tank top, the blanket thrown haphazardly over the enormous bed as it trailed onto the floor.

In answer, it only flicked the lights of the bathroom on, signalling to Nesta that it was time to get ready. “Fine,” she grumbled, but began her morning routine for the day anyway. 

Forty-five minutes later, she was showered, dressed, and had done her makeup as best she could to cover her dark circles. Her hair was braided in the usual coronet fashion that Nesta favoured as she sat at the breakfast table, facing an equally exhausted-looking Cassian.

“Morning Nes,” he crooned with an upward tilt of his mouth. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it a smile, but it seemed that he was at least attempting to be civil. She gave no acknowledgement, only picking up a bowl and beginning to pile cereal onto her plate. They might have hauled her here against her will, but she’d be damned if she didn’t enjoy good food while she was at it, never mind that she threw up most of it anyway. They didn’t need to know that.

“Still don’t want to talk to me, huh?” His question hung in the air for a brief second before Nesta sliced through it, snapping it clean in two. “What makes you think I want to talk to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he started, placing a hand on his chin in mock contemplation. “Maybe because we live in the same house and because I’m training you?”

“I’m not obligated to talk to you outside our training sessions. Why don’t you bring Morrigan over here? It’s not like she has a job anyway. And if she does, it’s not like she does it. One would think her job is drinking wine and going to that unholy place she calls a club.”

Nesta knew the blow had landed the minute Cassian’s face contorted into a snarl. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” she countered coolly, unphased by his sudden change in demeanor. “I’ve never seen her do much else.” If he attacked her, it would give her all the more reason to leave this damned mountain. She only hoped she was smart enough to provoke him, and that he was sutpid enough to take the bait.

Cassian merely pursed his lips in response as he glared daggers at her. Any decent person with an ounce of common sense and a slight bit of self-preservation would have the good sense to look at least a bit worried, but not Nesta. Maybe she’d never cared enough for her own good.

What he didn’t know, however, was why Nesta had insulted Morrigan. That self-righteous, haughty superiority complex had waltzed into last night’s dinner over an hour late, the one that Nesta had been forced to attend as a sign that she was getting better. The blonde had then proceeded to joke around with everyone, given and received the appropriate pleasantries, and turned her serpent’s gaze on Nesta.

“Well, you certainly look like you’ve been eating,” she’d remarked so condescendingly it had made Nesta want to rip the skin right off her flesh. Her brown eyes, void of any warmth or consideration, had roved over every curve and plane of her body, though there hadn’t been many curves there to begin with. A brief murmur had landed on Nesta’s ears, but she hadn’t bothered to properly listen in. Knowing them, they were likely encouraging Morrigan to continue insulting Nesta publicly.

“Yes. Nutritional requirements tend to increase when one trains,” she’d responded, voice bored and carefully neutral. It wouldn’t do to start a brawl in the middle of the High Lord’s dining room. She’d be pulverised to dust before she even had the chance to say I’m sorry. It wasn’t worth it. Besides, there were far better and far easier ways to get under their skin.

For all their supposed diplomatic skills that they showed to the world, the Night Court’s Inner Circle wore their emotions on their sleeves, with the exception of Azriel. It had led Nesta to notice many things about them, things that her sister had missed because she’d never been the observant one of the lot. Simply sitting and observing, Nesta’s mother had drilled into her, let you know more about the people than you might ever need to. Tuck this information away into the crevices of your mind, she’d whispered into the ears of a barely twelve-year-old Nesta as she stood poised about to enter that year’s summer gala. You never know when it might come in handy. Use it then.

Nesta was using it now, throwing their pathetic hearts on their sleeves right back at them every time they said or did something particularly heinous. For instance, when Morrigan’s conceited attitude came head-to-head with her favourite pastime of picking on Nesta for no particular reason.

“Oh, so you are training now?” She asked again with a quizzical tilt of her head. “Did your decision to do actually contribute to the well-being of this Court instead of its ruin take place before, after, or during you were fucking Cassian?”

Nesta would consider herself a heroine if she didn’t murder the pompous blonde by the end of tonight. Honestly, Rhysand should keep his lackeys in check. Then again, the bastard was likely enjoying the free entertainment he was receiving at her expense. The day he stepped in to help Nesta was the day Hel would freeze over.

“Did your decision to target me like some sort of game animal take place before, after, or during you saw me fucking him?” She retorted. Her tone was the same as Mor’s; light, breezy, and completely contradicting the vitriol they were spewing at each other. 

Unluckily for the Night Court’s Third-in-command, she didn’t know who she was up against. Nesta had always prided herself on her viper’s tongue, had honed the weapon to such precision it hardly took her half a thought before she was poised and ready to strike at the slightest provocation. 

It was what kept the hordes of people away, those with false promises and honeyed hopes that all would be right in the world and she would be okay. All was not right in the world, and she was not okay. She was far from it, but they didn’t need to know that. Besides, it wasn’t like they cared, despite what they attempted to show her and the world.

“Nesta,” came Feyre’s exasperated voice as she clutched her swollen belly. “Can we not? It’s…you’ve been doing so well, and this…can we have a nice, quiet night? Please?”

She nearly gagged at Feyre’s imploring tone that would no doubt turn into a hardened command if she declined. They loved giving people the illusion of choice, she realised. They wanted everyone, but mostly her, to think that she had some say in whatever twisted politics they relished in playing. It was what their court thrived on.

But Nesta was done. She was tired of playing games like these. She’d been trained to play them with such expertise it would shock her opponent, instructed and coached to be a deadly weapon that she was sure it would never come out of her, not if they tried it a hundred different ways. She was the weapon, and short of killing her, they’d have to deal with her.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said to no one in particular, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. She might have lashed out then, might have screamed at whoever tried to stop her. 

Thankfully, they appeared to retain at least that amount of sound judgment. No one stopped her, but they watched as she tugged on her boots and coat, and then stepped out into the biting cold.

✦ ✦ ✦

Nesta didn’t know how long she wandered the desolate streets of Velaris for. It had begun to get colder now, the warm rays of the sun giving way to the watery gloom that was autumn.

Nesta remembered how she’d hated autumn as a child. Colds, sniffles, and fevers had frequented the Archeron manor every year. She remembered having to stay cooped up in bed while cold-blooded and dispassionate servants had ensured she swallowed enough doses of whatever vile medicine the doctors had prescribed.

As an older girl living in a cottage, she had somehow managed to hate the frigid season even more. The moment the leaves had started yellowing was the moment she knew that winter would soon be upon them. It would mean scarce game, less food, and hungry bellies. It would mean raised tempers, aching bones, and the risk that they might not all make it through the season. 

No, Nesta had never been particularly fond of autumn. Certainly not now that it had started to rain, the drops falling in thick clumps and filling her ears with a pitter-patter that was almost soothing.

For all of Nesta’s hatred towards the autumn, she loved the rain. Something in the quiet, steady rhythm of the drops and the silence that seemed to envelope the world stilled the restlessness and unease in her.

Wiping a drop off her eye, she continued walking towards the general direction of the House of Wind. She’d make it there eventually if she followed the river. There was a bridge somewhere along there, she knew, and all she needed to do was cross it and keeping walking straight. 

While she’d never been into the city itself, she’d gleaned enough from the aerial views and flights she’d been on to make her way around Feyre’s four (or was it five?) mansions, estates, and properties all over the city. 

Another ridiculous notion of her youngest sister’s; to insist on having literal palaces around the city when there was still rampant poverty throughout Velaris, she thought to herself as the familiar taste of bitterness began to seep into her bones once more, as sharp and resentful as it had always had been.

Nesta had drank, dined, and gambled with a few of the less…financially stable patrons. She hadn’t thought less of them, only given them the grim understanding a stranger could give as both parties’ priorities were the same: drowning out their worries for the night as they laughed and joked and toasted to the small moments like those instead of wallowing in their own self-pity.

It was what had kept many of them from giving up entirely. Nesta often thought that the power of indulgence was exceptionally undersold. It was a luxury that the rich were looked up to for, while anyone not in the same elite status was demonized. The double standard was sickening.

Nevertheless, it was Rhysand’s governing that had led to the financial divide, and his unwillingness to even acknowledge, let alone bridge the enormous wealth gap, was mortifying.

She came to a sudden halt as the crimson stone of the House loomed in front of her, now slick and wet with the pouring rain. She hadn’t realised she’d made it all the way here; she’d been so consumed by her own thoughts.

Panting lightly, she decided it was best to at least attempt to climb the steps. If she didn’t make it back up to the House by midnight, she’d camp out on the stairs. She’d be dry if nothing else. It wasn’t like they would care much for her absence anyhow. 

Sighing, Nesta began the unholy ten-thousand step climb, and prayed to the Mother that she’d have enough energy to deal with the aftermath of her behaviour tomorrow.

✦ ✦ ✦

Nesta didn’t know how long it took her to climb those steps, only that she had eventually made it to the House, and that she was now soaked with sweat. The city glowed golden beneath her, alight with joy and love and and life and a hundred other things that now seemed foreign to her, but she didn’t notice it, nor did she care.

It took Nesta more energy than she cared to admit to make it back to her room. As she passed the common corridor, (because Cassian had insisted they stay on the same floor), she heard the male’s snores faintly echoing around the space.

She relaxed slightly, relieved that she wouldn’t have to interact with anyone else lest she act so malicious they would consider throwing her into the Hewn City.

As much as she told herself it was an empty threat, there was a part of her that wasn’t so ready to accept the lies the self-proclaimed Inner Circle fed her. She had no doubt they’d dispose of her as little more than trash and be altogether too happy to be rid of her the minute she ceased being of any true value to the court. 

The only question was when.

✦ ✦ ✦

Turning onto her side, Nesta glanced at the clock and sighed. 3:02, it read. Three in the fucking morning, and she hadn’t managed to catch even a wink of sleep.

Some nights, the sleeplessness was due to her nightmares. Other times, it was worry and anxiety roiling so deep in her gut she ended up expelling most of it anyway. This time, she wasn’t sure what it was, only that she couldn’t stay in bed like this any longer. She’d lose her mind with boredom.

She was sure the House was sleeping now, too, and wouldn’t play any music if she asked it to. In fact, she was sure it would be grumpier the next day, acting more stubborn and cocky than usual.

Nesta tossed the covers off and got up, making her way to the bathroom to wash her face. Maybe some fresh water would help. 

Once that was done, she put on her slippers and padded to the common library. It was by no means the library, but it was a smaller collection of books that happened to be there on each floor to avoid traipsing up and down the steps every time in search of a particular novel.

A touch so fatal, read the first title, piquing Nesta’s interest immediately. She’d always been a romantic at heart, and she simply loved the House’s extensive erotica collection. It seemed that it, too, had been starved of good smut to read, and a companion to share its niche love for literature with.

Picking it up off the shelf, she situated herself in an armchair, curling her legs to her chest, and began to read. 

✦ ✦ ✦

Nesta didn’t know how long she was sat there for, only that the words flew over the page and her mind was filled with images of knights and dragons and castles. Stolen kisses, lingering promises and fleeting touches had her melting, and she couldn’t help it as her heart soared.

She was nothing and no one, simply enjoying the literature that was in front of her, indulging herself and her desires in something so frivolous and silly her past self would have chided her for it. 

But the Cauldron had Made something in Nesta. No, she thought. Not Made. Uncovered. For the part that had adored books and music and dance had been with her, in her since she was a child. The only difference now was that she had the opportunity to fulfill that aching want of knowing a character in a book deeper than she knew herself. To explore worlds that might otherwise have been out of her reach, to think and grieve and laugh and sing with each individual.

Starry night bled into blossoming dawn, the sun creeping steadily over the horizon, and still Nesta did not stop.

A/N: I used an unofficial map of Velaris and this is another one that I thought was cool (but didn't use)

#78

A beacon of light, a beacon of hope,

I know not how I shall cope.

With the love you shower upon my soul,

It fills my heart’s aching hole.

The void that can only be filled,

When blood in scarlet rivers is spilt.

The city shall run red with the blood of the fallen,

The bright light of day shall lessen.

And grow dimmer with each passing day,

I know not how I shall find my way.

If I have not my beacon of hope,

I know not how I shall cope.

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#149

I examine all our moments together like gems. I turn them over and over and over until I have memorised every crevice, every dent, every chip in the jewels. I hoard them like a dragon, breathing fire on anyone who dares get too close to what we once had. I grieve over the immortality of these jewels, and also mourn our inability to access them. All I want to do is to reach a hand all the way through and caress these memories, these glowing lights in my sea of darkness. But the irony is that I am stuck with the distorted recollection of our moments together.

Is it not odd how our minds erase all the bad about the person once they have left our lives? How our minds seem to magically forgive the sinner for every wrongdoing, if only so we can have them back in our lives, if only so that we can avoid feeling this deep, bone-numbing loneliness, if only for a little bit.

Our minds crave company, mine craves you, despite all that has happened between us, despite this chasm that separates your soul and mine. I refuse to believe it is irreparable; there must be a piece of glass thick enough and large enough to be able to patch this ruin up. If it cracks, I will fall without a scream, because I will have been grateful to even have had the chance to pursue you. I will not yell, because I will have died thinking about you, about finding my way back to you, because in my finl moments, the thoughts of your soul will have filled my mind for a fleeting, endless moment.

As you are immortalsied in these jewels, so will you be immortalised in me. My mind will not forget you, no matter how I try. How can it be possible to see someone in so many different places, in so many different ways? Every step, every breath all I can see is you, yet you are just a shadow away, one step away from being reunited with me.

A ghost, a haunting presence you are, standing at the edge of my memory, your borders blurring as I squint my eyes and try to make our your shape. Were you really that tall? And was your hair really that colour? I don’t know, I don’t remember, but I remember your soul, your thoughts, your kindness. It has been imprinted on my soul in such a way that the only way I will be able to function again is if you mold your soul to mine. That way, we will be a whole once more, and not two halves drifting on separate ends of this world. Everything will make sense once we are together, I promise you.

You have this uncanny ability to make everything seem better when you are present. If I truly did not know better, I would call it magic, but now I know it is something else entirely that I could not put a name to if I tried. You calm the fire in me, the nervousness, the rage; all that is unpalatable about me become features that are bearable only because of your presence. In your presence, I am no longer a monster or a feral beast, I resemble a human. I know how to function around you, I know how to act without turning insane and sick with the thought of you, I can breathe when you are around. 

That is why I believe you are molded to me, crafted to me and my very being by a God or fate or destiny so immovable, I will not be surprised if we uncover the knowledge that millions have died trying to change this course of life. The inevitability of it all astounds me; how two people can be so different and yet they can grow to love and cherish and admire each other.

My mind is no longer numb, my brain no longer frozen and in a shock so deep it would take such immense amounts of electricity to revive it again. Life feels like a nightmare without you; with you, it becomes tolerable and I do not feel the incessant and constant need to drive a knife through my chest when you are here, beside me.

Stay. Stay here, stay with me. Stay beside me, do not leave. I will hold onto you until my nails crack and my hands bleed, until the evidence of my anguish and desperation is forever engraved onto your skin. I will kneel and beg and cry and weep, I will become less than a human for you (because I have always been) but I require you to stay. I am running out of ways to say this now, but I need you, I need the miracle that is you to save me from the damnation that is myself.

I require saving, but I am not brave enough to save myself. And so, I latch onto the nearest thing, the closest being who will not hate me for being as I am, what I am (at least not entirely. Some forms of hatred I can live with). And so, I implore you to at least attempt to fix the mess that is me, this thing that has been festering inside my must leave. 

It is only your light that it will listen to, it is only your presence that will cause it to abate and shrink in on itself, much like I have done with myself previously; hiding, constantly hiding. That creature requires a firm hand, a stern voice, and I am too scared to be able to have either.

I know that creature is bad for me, I know I should not listen to it, and yet I want to. When you are not there, I turn to it instead. A sorry replacement for you, yes, but I suppose that beggars cannot be choosers. I seek its approval the way I seek yours, madly, wildly, incessantly; wild and without abandon. I will break myself down to rubble if you ask me; if only you ask, I will reduce myself to nothing but ashes if necessary, without a thought and entirely willingly.

I have realised that I have no purpose in this life but to be yours, to be yours and to serve you in any way that is possible. If it is my heart you desire, it is my heart you will get. On a silver platter, decorated with jewels, decorated with gemstones so stunning I will get a spark of joy in my chest, that rotting cavity upon seeing your smile, seeing those wondrous eyes light up with mirth and satisfaction.

But I will consider myself unworthy when that same gaze is shone upon me. I cannot receive anything good, you see. I balk at any positive thing, any good thing, any holy thing. Anything pure, or sweet, or kind. I am sure I will ruin it, I am sure I will destroy it in ways one had not thought imaginable. I will stutter and fidget and wonder when I shall be let out of the spotlight when I receive praise.

How odd it is, to want to be seen by someone, but to only want the parts I deem adequate to do so? How odd that I must make myself palatable, easy to digest and simple, plain, so that I am not overwhelming to others. How odd that I must cater to a stranger’s tastes before my own; how I must consider someone else’s opinion before I have the chance to formulate my own.

How odd that I must be molded into someone else, shaped like a clay doll pretending to be porcelain, delicate and fragile and breakable. While those traits are not entirely wrong, I am fragile in a different way. I wll self-combust, self-sabotage at the slightest touch of intimacy, of vulnerability. I flee from emotion as if it is a plague, as if it will rot my already rotted soul. I find it foreign, an odd feeling to ruminate on, one I have learned long ago is not worth the pain. 

If I block the good, I will block the pain, but it does not matter so long as I block the pain. I will build walls and fortresses so high nothing and no one will penetrate them, not even on accident. I will wield myself to be a weapon so deadly, so fearful not even the thought of trespassing these walls, this ruined estate, once grand in its glory, will cross their minds.

I will live in solitude, but solitude is safer than the fear of being seen; seen as I truly am.

If i balk at the sight of others, then surely there must be someone, somewhere who does the same.

I am not as conceited to think that these emotions have been felt by no one before, as if I am the only one who has had the privilege of experiencing such crushing amounts of self-hatred and self-loathing. But the lack of documentation, of diaries and speeches, or conversations, certainly makes it seem so.

Ever since the dawn of time, it seems, humanity has been inclined to hide away parts of themselves they are not yet ready to show to the world.

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#7

She sighed, the wind ruffling her hair, and marvelled at the glittering sprawl of the city before her, buzzing and teeming with life. With light. With people. Her people. The people she had sworn to protect until her last breath. But what good was that oath now? Sand, dust, rubble, and shattered dreams, that was what it was. She had failed, after all. Failed to save what was most important. And they had paid. Her dear siblings, her friends, had died on the battlefield, not an ounce of fear or regret on their ethereal and unmistakably Fae faces. They had embraced death nobly, as warriors. Some weak, disgusting part of her had felt angry at them in the initial weeks after their deaths for abandoning her so. For abandoning her and her future. But not anymore. Today, on the anniversary of their deaths, she understood their sacrifices. Why they had done what they'd done. That it wasn't simply out of loyalty to their Empress, but rather a way of making sure that no more innocent blood spilled on their lands again. Enough blood had run, on either side, to turn the rivers scarlet and glowing, and she had no intention of letting it continue.

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#67

My heart, my soul, my body are all so heavy. They grow heavier with each passing day, and my mind feels like lead. I am in a haze, in foggy labyrinth of my own thoughts as I make the same circles over and over again without realising. The gods look down upon me, laugh and joke, betting on what horrible, terrible mistake I shall make that will change the course of my life. They sit on their golden thrones remarking, how could she be so stupid? Surely she must have learned her lesson by now. Ah, but that is the thing, you see. No matter how many lessons you may try to teach me, no matter how many people have been sent my way to teach me the same lesson, I will love them anyway. I will fall for them, and fall from grace. I will love them as I have loved poison, and have been driven mad, half wild on the taste and thought and smell of it alone. Of you.

Soon, the bitter taste of the poison that is called love is all I shall crave, all I will be able to think about. I shall become addicted to it, as one might to alcohol. I shall not stop. I shall love incessantly, hungrily, without pause or fear, for that is all I have ever known and the only thing my soul can do. It has been made this way, you see. To give love to those who cannot make it themselves. And perhaps it is a curse to love someone so deeply they cannot truly understand the depths of it, but it might be a blessing too. To give love to the broken, to the mad, to those who despair and fear they shall never again come out. Perhaps this love is needed. But why must I be the one to give it?

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