11-25-2016, 09:50 PM
The Mist house was silent. Not many lived the manor anymore. Most had relocated to Amdapur, but Emile, never truly felt comfortable doing so. The first decade of his life had been living on the streets, exposed to elements and sleeping on the bear earth. After he finally experienced a warm bed in Seventus Manor, he vowed never to go to sleep cold and hungry gain, and Amdapur-under-reconstruction simply sent him flashing back to those days. He’d liked the Mist house; it was his first true home after Seventus. All his friends and Risah was here… But no longer it, would seem. A cataclysmic shift occurred in recent days and though he knew clear in his logic that all was well, his world still felt askew.
He sat on the edge of the bed and a slip of lace wound around his fingers. It had been from Risah’s dress on the night he’d brought her home from Ozma and hadn’t survived their passionate reunion despite it’s most valiant efforts. He felt its softness against his skin and thought of her, trying to reconcile the two that now existed in his mind: There was Hunie, the girl he adored from a week ago, and Risah, the woman he loved now. What was once simple was now complex in dimensions he had not been prepared to encounter. Doubts and fears now ran in the undertow of his waves of love. Not doubts in her, mind you, but doubts in himself that he could not place.
What is my role to be now? Who am I to her? What is my purpose now? Do we continue was we did or do we become something else? Something more or something less? What if she changes her mind? What if she realizes I’m not what she wants or needs any longer and the reacquaints with life here. What if her new self realizes she’s too mature for my fool-Romantic’s soul?
His mind spiraled down. He held back as best he could, but for reasons he knew not, he wept. He cried on the same bed they’d loved in naught days before, consumed with fear. Fear for things that escaped his understanding, because he knew as sure as one and one sum to two that she loved him. She told him repeatedly of her undying love for him and fact dictated that he should feel no fear. And yet, he did regardless. He feared some nebulous force that now crawled in the back of his mind, whispering unspeakable threats into his heart. On the night stand beside him was a tome of poetry from which he’d sought surcease of his doubts, to which it failed; he grabbed it and hurled it across the room towards his wardrobe, where it sailed through the open door, slammed against the back wall and a cascade of artifacts tumbled out. Of the many that fell, one emitted a deflating bang: his aged guitar.
He looked at it quizzically; he’d not seen it in almost three years, since he’d moved here. He approached it as one does an old acquaintance and grabbed it with a ginger-grip. Returning to the bed, he sat on the creaking springs and strummed it: woefully out of tune, which he corrected.
He’d not played in years, but his muscles knew the motions like instinct. Without much effort, from his lips to his fingertips came a song he’s composed as a teenager, when his identify and place in the world consumed most of his attention.
Concluding, he felt the babies of blisters on his fingers, and he remembered how he loved to play. He remembered beyond the expanses of time and space how much he loved to be swept up in the glorious rhapsodies of music and the passions it sprung forth in people. He remembered how it connected Risah and he for the first time.
Risah, he thought. Oh, how I could play for her. I imagine she’d love it! Three years missing my music and I could show her something new and she could dance and… wait… three years…
His stomach dropped.
Three years: that was the ocean of time that had flooded into his life in the span of three days. When Ozma shattered and reunions had been sweet, he felt sorrow. He wondered if it was wrong, if he was wrong. How could Bellini and Luka and Valarie look at their family three years aged and not be horror-struck by the existential mass of it all. Whereas he, separated from the woman he loved for only so short a span, could hardly bear it. Truth be told, when the reality of the time passed fell upon his mind, it crashed down upon his confidence like the weight of the sea. The old questions came back with the tide; anxieties shifting in their permutations mutated and multiplied without bound.
When she emerged, radiant as the setting sun, he could not help but feel the daggers or regret and remorse and shame. He fancied himself a hero and what kind of hero lets his love be harmed for three years and does nothing? He knew it was irrational and ridiculous. He knew he’d done all he could and had rescued her in the end, but when has the heart ever been rational. He imagined that guilt would reside in his heart for some time, though he worked with diligence to evict it as fast as possible, for he feared it to strain their already destabilized relationship.
But her words had corrected his course and pulled him from his spiraling thoughts: “I love you.” He’d never heard those lyrics spoken to him before. Three years against 3 weeks of relationship; she loved him in ways he had yet to understand and, truth be told, it scared him. He’d never loved like that before and he feared that lack of experience would drive a wedge between them and…
That was it. He feared he’d not be able to measure up. Three years’ worth of love on her end and he feared he would fail her as he did before. He feared that he, three years now her junior in their relationship, would not be inadequate; that their honeymoon period would end so early and she’d see him for all his flaws and faults and edges and wrongs and he’d lose her. And for the first time in his life, he had something to lose.
His lion’s heart wavered for a moment, but then it roared to life. No. No NO NO! I will not give into fear!
He was nothing if not a fighter. He was nothing if not courageous and fear would never restrain the resounding blows of his heart’s reverberations. The grip on his guitar tightened and his lips pressed together. He was not about to cower now. He would love her back; harder and stronger and with more fire than she’d ever encountered before. For he was Emile Oberon: a Romantic of the highest order and a lover of the most awesome form: they’d love with a love that was more than love, he and his lovely Hunie.
The night of her release form her temporal prison, he’d delivered her on seraph wings to her room and they’d sealed their love and bound themselves together and in spite of all fate would do to separate them; they would fight for their love until the last beat of their hearts. But again, fate in all her cruel machinations worked to tear apart the seemingly star-crossed lovers. Missions and worries strained their newborn bonds of love mere days after their consummation, and it was in the face of these worries that Emile vowed to fight back against the gnashing jaws of fate.
He rose from the bed and slung the guitar over his shoulder, his expression set hard in one of determination. No worry would pollute his heart anymore. He was the Lion Defiant. He was the Elezen Without Fear. He was the Black Lion, for heaven’s sake. He would drive out the anxieties in his spirit with music. He tore from the room, his twin rapiers still draped over his bedpost. He needed only one weapon today: his guitar.
He knew she was gone for the day, probably somewhere in Amdapur. He pulled forth is grappling-gun and catapulted his way across the Mists to the Aethrite and then through the swamps to the ruined city. Sailing through the air on wings of coaxial cable, he scanned the city for signs of his beloved and before long he found her graceful form. In a cleared section of ancient street, there stood Risah and Sugar Plum. They danced as grace personified with practiced precision and poise.
“I supposed that they had plenty of time to train together,” he thought.
He disengaged the winch of the gun and descended to the earth behind a ruined building to collect himself. Pulling the guitar over his shoulder into hands, he couldn’t tell what was more taught and tense: the guitar chords or his heart strings. He strummed the cords to warm up his tendons; he not played in some time and the steel strings dug into his digit tips. His lips mumbled lyrics, “I love- Love you too… Love above love…” He was nervous now, as nervous as he’d been on the first night he asked her to dance just a few months (No, Emile. Years) ago…
His heart fell and the heartstrings tugged. Years…
There was his doubt again, his fears. He loved her so much; more than he loved anything else in the world. He felt so strong with her, like a titan. He felt as Atlas, able to hold the world aloft on his heart alone. The old fears crawled back on fanged talons and venomous teeth, but before they bit, he remembered her face. He remembered the curve of her lips and the smell of her hair and the shape of her smile and the butterflies the flickered though this belly when their eyes locked. Yes, he was scared, but he’d never let fear stop him before. Now was the time for action and daring-do and valiant courage. Now was the time for a leap of faith. He smiled and fire erupted in the Lion’s heart. He was a Romantic and he was the best there was at what he did.
He took a deep breath and turned the corner, approaching them. Once he was within shouting distance, he began to pluck the supple strings with a duelist’s precision.
“If music be the food of Love, play on,” he whispered to himself and began his serenade.
As the notes of the final strum faded into the morning air, he stood before her glory and waited. A subtle panic skittered though his nerves as the leap was taken. But, as before, he was nothing if not courageous and sometimes courage didn’t mean facing down an army or dueling an arch-nemesis; sometimes it was just means telling someone you love them more than life itself.
He sat on the edge of the bed and a slip of lace wound around his fingers. It had been from Risah’s dress on the night he’d brought her home from Ozma and hadn’t survived their passionate reunion despite it’s most valiant efforts. He felt its softness against his skin and thought of her, trying to reconcile the two that now existed in his mind: There was Hunie, the girl he adored from a week ago, and Risah, the woman he loved now. What was once simple was now complex in dimensions he had not been prepared to encounter. Doubts and fears now ran in the undertow of his waves of love. Not doubts in her, mind you, but doubts in himself that he could not place.
What is my role to be now? Who am I to her? What is my purpose now? Do we continue was we did or do we become something else? Something more or something less? What if she changes her mind? What if she realizes I’m not what she wants or needs any longer and the reacquaints with life here. What if her new self realizes she’s too mature for my fool-Romantic’s soul?
His mind spiraled down. He held back as best he could, but for reasons he knew not, he wept. He cried on the same bed they’d loved in naught days before, consumed with fear. Fear for things that escaped his understanding, because he knew as sure as one and one sum to two that she loved him. She told him repeatedly of her undying love for him and fact dictated that he should feel no fear. And yet, he did regardless. He feared some nebulous force that now crawled in the back of his mind, whispering unspeakable threats into his heart. On the night stand beside him was a tome of poetry from which he’d sought surcease of his doubts, to which it failed; he grabbed it and hurled it across the room towards his wardrobe, where it sailed through the open door, slammed against the back wall and a cascade of artifacts tumbled out. Of the many that fell, one emitted a deflating bang: his aged guitar.
He looked at it quizzically; he’d not seen it in almost three years, since he’d moved here. He approached it as one does an old acquaintance and grabbed it with a ginger-grip. Returning to the bed, he sat on the creaking springs and strummed it: woefully out of tune, which he corrected.
He’d not played in years, but his muscles knew the motions like instinct. Without much effort, from his lips to his fingertips came a song he’s composed as a teenager, when his identify and place in the world consumed most of his attention.
Concluding, he felt the babies of blisters on his fingers, and he remembered how he loved to play. He remembered beyond the expanses of time and space how much he loved to be swept up in the glorious rhapsodies of music and the passions it sprung forth in people. He remembered how it connected Risah and he for the first time.
Risah, he thought. Oh, how I could play for her. I imagine she’d love it! Three years missing my music and I could show her something new and she could dance and… wait… three years…
His stomach dropped.
Three years: that was the ocean of time that had flooded into his life in the span of three days. When Ozma shattered and reunions had been sweet, he felt sorrow. He wondered if it was wrong, if he was wrong. How could Bellini and Luka and Valarie look at their family three years aged and not be horror-struck by the existential mass of it all. Whereas he, separated from the woman he loved for only so short a span, could hardly bear it. Truth be told, when the reality of the time passed fell upon his mind, it crashed down upon his confidence like the weight of the sea. The old questions came back with the tide; anxieties shifting in their permutations mutated and multiplied without bound.
When she emerged, radiant as the setting sun, he could not help but feel the daggers or regret and remorse and shame. He fancied himself a hero and what kind of hero lets his love be harmed for three years and does nothing? He knew it was irrational and ridiculous. He knew he’d done all he could and had rescued her in the end, but when has the heart ever been rational. He imagined that guilt would reside in his heart for some time, though he worked with diligence to evict it as fast as possible, for he feared it to strain their already destabilized relationship.
But her words had corrected his course and pulled him from his spiraling thoughts: “I love you.” He’d never heard those lyrics spoken to him before. Three years against 3 weeks of relationship; she loved him in ways he had yet to understand and, truth be told, it scared him. He’d never loved like that before and he feared that lack of experience would drive a wedge between them and…
That was it. He feared he’d not be able to measure up. Three years’ worth of love on her end and he feared he would fail her as he did before. He feared that he, three years now her junior in their relationship, would not be inadequate; that their honeymoon period would end so early and she’d see him for all his flaws and faults and edges and wrongs and he’d lose her. And for the first time in his life, he had something to lose.
His lion’s heart wavered for a moment, but then it roared to life. No. No NO NO! I will not give into fear!
He was nothing if not a fighter. He was nothing if not courageous and fear would never restrain the resounding blows of his heart’s reverberations. The grip on his guitar tightened and his lips pressed together. He was not about to cower now. He would love her back; harder and stronger and with more fire than she’d ever encountered before. For he was Emile Oberon: a Romantic of the highest order and a lover of the most awesome form: they’d love with a love that was more than love, he and his lovely Hunie.
The night of her release form her temporal prison, he’d delivered her on seraph wings to her room and they’d sealed their love and bound themselves together and in spite of all fate would do to separate them; they would fight for their love until the last beat of their hearts. But again, fate in all her cruel machinations worked to tear apart the seemingly star-crossed lovers. Missions and worries strained their newborn bonds of love mere days after their consummation, and it was in the face of these worries that Emile vowed to fight back against the gnashing jaws of fate.
He rose from the bed and slung the guitar over his shoulder, his expression set hard in one of determination. No worry would pollute his heart anymore. He was the Lion Defiant. He was the Elezen Without Fear. He was the Black Lion, for heaven’s sake. He would drive out the anxieties in his spirit with music. He tore from the room, his twin rapiers still draped over his bedpost. He needed only one weapon today: his guitar.
He knew she was gone for the day, probably somewhere in Amdapur. He pulled forth is grappling-gun and catapulted his way across the Mists to the Aethrite and then through the swamps to the ruined city. Sailing through the air on wings of coaxial cable, he scanned the city for signs of his beloved and before long he found her graceful form. In a cleared section of ancient street, there stood Risah and Sugar Plum. They danced as grace personified with practiced precision and poise.
“I supposed that they had plenty of time to train together,” he thought.
He disengaged the winch of the gun and descended to the earth behind a ruined building to collect himself. Pulling the guitar over his shoulder into hands, he couldn’t tell what was more taught and tense: the guitar chords or his heart strings. He strummed the cords to warm up his tendons; he not played in some time and the steel strings dug into his digit tips. His lips mumbled lyrics, “I love- Love you too… Love above love…” He was nervous now, as nervous as he’d been on the first night he asked her to dance just a few months (No, Emile. Years) ago…
His heart fell and the heartstrings tugged. Years…
There was his doubt again, his fears. He loved her so much; more than he loved anything else in the world. He felt so strong with her, like a titan. He felt as Atlas, able to hold the world aloft on his heart alone. The old fears crawled back on fanged talons and venomous teeth, but before they bit, he remembered her face. He remembered the curve of her lips and the smell of her hair and the shape of her smile and the butterflies the flickered though this belly when their eyes locked. Yes, he was scared, but he’d never let fear stop him before. Now was the time for action and daring-do and valiant courage. Now was the time for a leap of faith. He smiled and fire erupted in the Lion’s heart. He was a Romantic and he was the best there was at what he did.
He took a deep breath and turned the corner, approaching them. Once he was within shouting distance, he began to pluck the supple strings with a duelist’s precision.
“If music be the food of Love, play on,” he whispered to himself and began his serenade.
As the notes of the final strum faded into the morning air, he stood before her glory and waited. A subtle panic skittered though his nerves as the leap was taken. But, as before, he was nothing if not courageous and sometimes courage didn’t mean facing down an army or dueling an arch-nemesis; sometimes it was just means telling someone you love them more than life itself.