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BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS
BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE FLAMES
The Greeks built their temples to face the east, letting the light of the rising sun shine through to wash their patron gods in golden radiance. It was no wonder, he imagined, that the Athenians built themselves to be the most brilliant of all men: what a clever ingenuity, their architecture. But perhaps it was only to be expected. Perhaps there was simply an inherent urge buried in all of their hearts to turn towards the sun and her beauty, to lean into warmth as opposed to it; perhaps any one of those ancients could have devised such a notion, following the urges of their own hearts. Was it so inconceivable to think that they might all be drawn to her, just as the plants and planets themselves were?
Rationalization, he knew, could not excuse him entirely. The whole world orbits the Sun, he can tell himself, There is no reason that you should not. But that does not mean he can look himself in the mirror and feel that it is true. No, it would be wrong and unjustifiable to compare his eastern star to their Sun: he did not orbit her but rather believed in her in the sort of manner that he did not believe in anything else. Let the impious fall to the ground before her, let him know what it meant to worship; to see, now, the truth of piety and all that it demanded of the flesh of mortals. ælthǽ, mákaira thæá, mál' æpíraton eidos ǽkhousa; psykhíi gar sæ kalóh sæmníi ayíisi lóyisin.[sup]1[/sup]
Now, he traced that golden thread towards the east, following its pull as he walked and walked. Dark trees fell away all around him as he walked until he felt that he had gone too far to turn back, had left his clearing behind and disappeared into the night. How often had he thought about it, to simply walk and not look back and never return? To leave it all behind? When would his deserter heart rear its ugly head and set him on that path, away from it all? But no, this was not the same as he imagined, sometimes: this was walking towards the light, towards her, towards it all. This was not the same as his mistakes in the past; this was not the same as that one time, when he ventured beyond the safety of his clearing, beyond the four-point star, into the vast abyss of the hosts. This was no quest for victory, a tireless voyage into seas of memories to come out triumphant. This was reverence, turning from the familiarity of his own territory — his souls, his core — to step into the dark and trust her to bring him out of it on the other side. This was faith.
A radical notion. Prior, he had believed only in two things: the inevitability of Death and the divine wrath of Fate, cruel goddess. There was no room for faith in the faithless, those faithless not only in god or kingdom but in themselves as well — what good was faith to one who was already doomed, wrapped in Fate's red silk? If there are gods, they are harsh ones; your faith means nothing to them, and there for may as not exist. No gods could rule him, no gods could demand his attention when he could not demand theirs. But a goddess.
A goddess.
Perhaps it was only for this reason that he might look to Fate and believe in her, even while turning his back to all others — perhaps his existence, deep down, far beyond his souls, had known innately that it would be a goddess to demand his faith; perhaps it was not merely that he believed in Fate, and therefore found that he might have faith in a goddess, but rather that he knew inherently that there would be a goddess one day to claim his reverence that allowed him to honor Fate because she was a goddess (though not the goddess). Divinity that commands must be female, for so is she.
Light, flickering through the forest. Not quite that golden radiance, guiding him forward, guiding him to her, but rather something softer: the flicking blues of light reflecting off of water, shifting and lapping idly at one another. He ventured forward without question, let the roaring of the gorges sink into his bones and stepped into the clearing that cropped up, seemingly on its own, in his path. A meager river trickled by, so small and unassuming, emitting such noise, and she stood waiting for him just as he had innately known she would be.
[b]"Will you save me?" she asked, words sliding down his spine, and he stopped before her and listened with the reverence demanded of him. Yes, he wanted to say, knowing he couldn't; always, his thoughts insisted, the heat of her name on the tip of his tongue. "Will you chase me, this time?"
"I chased you before," he said, the memories rising and falling idly, distantly; there was something else there, too. He looked at Indigo and told her the truth and yet there was a burning under his skin, the subtle whisper that he was missing something. He didn't chase her, once. He didn't follow her. He couldn't have. The certainty of it ran contrary to the past that spoke to him, and for a moment the duality stopped him short.
"Will you find me this time?" she asked, unwavering, offering no clarification of what she meant, of what he was feeling. She'd said this time and yet she did not question him when he claimed to have followed her that time, too. An itch under his skin, straining, screaming to keep moving, keep looking, to find her before he lost her again.
"Yes," he said, the glimmer of some awareness there, some sliver of Echo budding in his chest, resting quietly beside the burning flame of need, "I will find you. I won't lose you, this time."
I love you, he thought, and kept walking. He had to find her, but he could not find her here; there was something more pulling him forward, through the trees, on and on through the darkness as the clearing faded and the burning in his chest expanded. She was a flame, sinking deep; the only flame that would not escape him, shooting up in the world around him, burning roses and bedrooms — this flame would not leave him, but he had to find her, catch her, save her.
The trees gave way as he knew they would, the darkness fading and vanishing as he walked across the plains, blind to anything but the golden thread calling to him. Castle ruins rose in the distance, and he walked towards it, through it; stepped over broken cobblestones and the ghosts in the earth as he ventured slowly. He could feel her here, somewhere, waiting; felt the tightening in his throat as he searched for her, found her in the courtyard.
"Stella," he breathed, triumphant, burning: trembling with the intensity of the flames as he stopped and fell to his knees in front of where she sat, wordless. "I found you." Fire creeping, devouring, threatening to overwhelm; it burned through him and he mistook it for worship, the call in his veins convincing him he had found her, had succeed, had saved her.
"You cannot find me here, love," she said, soft, pale green gaze somehow setting that itching upon him once more: a prickle amidst the embers, pulling him still, struggling to steal his attention away. "You are not looking for me."
"But I have to," he countered, and there: the purpose, the drive, the guilt suddenly blossoming, the abrupt realization coming to him out of the dark. "I have to— Ophelia, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I thought I loved you."
Fingers in his hair, wondering at the curls as she pushed them back; burning, flames following in her path, the soft whisper in his bones growing louder as she spoke, "You did, Isaac. But you cannot find me here. You can feel it. You must keep looking; I am not the one you want to save."
"Stella—" he said, fingers outstretched to catch upon her, but she was out of reach, distant, somehow; you have to keep going, she said without speaking, and he stood, reluctant, let the claim on his soul draw him away, and it was only upon stepping inside the ruined building that he felt that the burning was soothing. She is calling you.
Gravel crumbled as he walked down the halls, chasing the trail of gold left behind, chasing the traces of divinity; sacred flames lapped at his heels and burned when memories threatened to send him in the opposite direction, back towards the others, towards the past.
A door, an alter; again on his knees before it, letting the burning rage of faith curl through him, the lurking promise of finding her here — finding her, finally, chasing after her this time, not letting her go; the burning insistance that without his eastern star he would be lost, sightless. His fingertips touched the shattered remains of the wooden barrier and it all faded to darkness, only a faint glow left behind in his grasp.
Bastille woke up with a burning in his throat, bond pulsing with the traces of golden radiance hovering so faintly in his thought. He moved without thinking, the phantom cold of the forest lingering on his skin as he followed a familiar pull, down familiar halls; things were falling away rapidly as he walked, the past fading, only the quiet knowledge that he needed to find her before she disappeared lingering.
Her door was smooth and whole when he found it this time, some distant humming at the back of his thoughts telling him it should be broken, ruined; he knocked without speaking, holy prayer caught in the back of his throat, resisting the whispering suggestion that he should be on his knees.
[ 1 Come, happy goddess, ineffably beautiful, to my prayer; for thee I call, with holy, reverent mind. Orphic Hymn to Aphrodite. ]
Rationalization, he knew, could not excuse him entirely. The whole world orbits the Sun, he can tell himself, There is no reason that you should not. But that does not mean he can look himself in the mirror and feel that it is true. No, it would be wrong and unjustifiable to compare his eastern star to their Sun: he did not orbit her but rather believed in her in the sort of manner that he did not believe in anything else. Let the impious fall to the ground before her, let him know what it meant to worship; to see, now, the truth of piety and all that it demanded of the flesh of mortals. ælthǽ, mákaira thæá, mál' æpíraton eidos ǽkhousa; psykhíi gar sæ kalóh sæmníi ayíisi lóyisin.[sup]1[/sup]
Now, he traced that golden thread towards the east, following its pull as he walked and walked. Dark trees fell away all around him as he walked until he felt that he had gone too far to turn back, had left his clearing behind and disappeared into the night. How often had he thought about it, to simply walk and not look back and never return? To leave it all behind? When would his deserter heart rear its ugly head and set him on that path, away from it all? But no, this was not the same as he imagined, sometimes: this was walking towards the light, towards her, towards it all. This was not the same as his mistakes in the past; this was not the same as that one time, when he ventured beyond the safety of his clearing, beyond the four-point star, into the vast abyss of the hosts. This was no quest for victory, a tireless voyage into seas of memories to come out triumphant. This was reverence, turning from the familiarity of his own territory — his souls, his core — to step into the dark and trust her to bring him out of it on the other side. This was faith.
A radical notion. Prior, he had believed only in two things: the inevitability of Death and the divine wrath of Fate, cruel goddess. There was no room for faith in the faithless, those faithless not only in god or kingdom but in themselves as well — what good was faith to one who was already doomed, wrapped in Fate's red silk? If there are gods, they are harsh ones; your faith means nothing to them, and there for may as not exist. No gods could rule him, no gods could demand his attention when he could not demand theirs. But a goddess.
A goddess.
Perhaps it was only for this reason that he might look to Fate and believe in her, even while turning his back to all others — perhaps his existence, deep down, far beyond his souls, had known innately that it would be a goddess to demand his faith; perhaps it was not merely that he believed in Fate, and therefore found that he might have faith in a goddess, but rather that he knew inherently that there would be a goddess one day to claim his reverence that allowed him to honor Fate because she was a goddess (though not the goddess). Divinity that commands must be female, for so is she.
Light, flickering through the forest. Not quite that golden radiance, guiding him forward, guiding him to her, but rather something softer: the flicking blues of light reflecting off of water, shifting and lapping idly at one another. He ventured forward without question, let the roaring of the gorges sink into his bones and stepped into the clearing that cropped up, seemingly on its own, in his path. A meager river trickled by, so small and unassuming, emitting such noise, and she stood waiting for him just as he had innately known she would be.
[b]"Will you save me?" she asked, words sliding down his spine, and he stopped before her and listened with the reverence demanded of him. Yes, he wanted to say, knowing he couldn't; always, his thoughts insisted, the heat of her name on the tip of his tongue. "Will you chase me, this time?"
"I chased you before," he said, the memories rising and falling idly, distantly; there was something else there, too. He looked at Indigo and told her the truth and yet there was a burning under his skin, the subtle whisper that he was missing something. He didn't chase her, once. He didn't follow her. He couldn't have. The certainty of it ran contrary to the past that spoke to him, and for a moment the duality stopped him short.
"Will you find me this time?" she asked, unwavering, offering no clarification of what she meant, of what he was feeling. She'd said this time and yet she did not question him when he claimed to have followed her that time, too. An itch under his skin, straining, screaming to keep moving, keep looking, to find her before he lost her again.
"Yes," he said, the glimmer of some awareness there, some sliver of Echo budding in his chest, resting quietly beside the burning flame of need, "I will find you. I won't lose you, this time."
I love you, he thought, and kept walking. He had to find her, but he could not find her here; there was something more pulling him forward, through the trees, on and on through the darkness as the clearing faded and the burning in his chest expanded. She was a flame, sinking deep; the only flame that would not escape him, shooting up in the world around him, burning roses and bedrooms — this flame would not leave him, but he had to find her, catch her, save her.
The trees gave way as he knew they would, the darkness fading and vanishing as he walked across the plains, blind to anything but the golden thread calling to him. Castle ruins rose in the distance, and he walked towards it, through it; stepped over broken cobblestones and the ghosts in the earth as he ventured slowly. He could feel her here, somewhere, waiting; felt the tightening in his throat as he searched for her, found her in the courtyard.
"Stella," he breathed, triumphant, burning: trembling with the intensity of the flames as he stopped and fell to his knees in front of where she sat, wordless. "I found you." Fire creeping, devouring, threatening to overwhelm; it burned through him and he mistook it for worship, the call in his veins convincing him he had found her, had succeed, had saved her.
"You cannot find me here, love," she said, soft, pale green gaze somehow setting that itching upon him once more: a prickle amidst the embers, pulling him still, struggling to steal his attention away. "You are not looking for me."
"But I have to," he countered, and there: the purpose, the drive, the guilt suddenly blossoming, the abrupt realization coming to him out of the dark. "I have to— Ophelia, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I thought I loved you."
Fingers in his hair, wondering at the curls as she pushed them back; burning, flames following in her path, the soft whisper in his bones growing louder as she spoke, "You did, Isaac. But you cannot find me here. You can feel it. You must keep looking; I am not the one you want to save."
"Stella—" he said, fingers outstretched to catch upon her, but she was out of reach, distant, somehow; you have to keep going, she said without speaking, and he stood, reluctant, let the claim on his soul draw him away, and it was only upon stepping inside the ruined building that he felt that the burning was soothing. She is calling you.
Gravel crumbled as he walked down the halls, chasing the trail of gold left behind, chasing the traces of divinity; sacred flames lapped at his heels and burned when memories threatened to send him in the opposite direction, back towards the others, towards the past.
A door, an alter; again on his knees before it, letting the burning rage of faith curl through him, the lurking promise of finding her here — finding her, finally, chasing after her this time, not letting her go; the burning insistance that without his eastern star he would be lost, sightless. His fingertips touched the shattered remains of the wooden barrier and it all faded to darkness, only a faint glow left behind in his grasp.
Bastille woke up with a burning in his throat, bond pulsing with the traces of golden radiance hovering so faintly in his thought. He moved without thinking, the phantom cold of the forest lingering on his skin as he followed a familiar pull, down familiar halls; things were falling away rapidly as he walked, the past fading, only the quiet knowledge that he needed to find her before she disappeared lingering.
Her door was smooth and whole when he found it this time, some distant humming at the back of his thoughts telling him it should be broken, ruined; he knocked without speaking, holy prayer caught in the back of his throat, resisting the whispering suggestion that he should be on his knees.
[ 1 Come, happy goddess, ineffably beautiful, to my prayer; for thee I call, with holy, reverent mind. Orphic Hymn to Aphrodite. ]
[B]ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — [color=#e2e2e2]TAGS — [color=#e2e2e2]MOODBOARD — [color=#e2e2e2]PLAYLIST
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]
