willem — d4, fin, cb

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

willem vanas
ashes to ashes

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

“In this world of ours, the sparrow must live like a hawk if he is to fly at all.”
― Hayao Miyazaki

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

W   I   L   L   E   M

My mother worries for me.

I feel it in the way she touches my shoulder, speaks my name – a hesitation that lingers and eats and swallows the space between us.

And I pretend not to notice, lose myself in the gardens, watch bumblebees dance from flower to flower, listen to birds chirp from the fountains. In the morning, I put blood meal in the soil of our gardenias, petals blooming in sweet dollops of cream, and bind dahlias to stakes, their tender branches stretching towards the sun. I snip feverfew, dry lavender for father, watch his hands charm secrets from foliage.

In the evening, I give my mother a blue vase of fresh flowers, peach coloured snapdragons and pink carnations.

"Beautiful," she says.

But I hear the pause, a small, hungry seed of doubt, watered and waiting.

I understand.

I think when Inta did not return, maybe a part of me did not either.

For awhile, I went through the same motions of life, earnestly promised Kaatje our sister would come home to us and maybe even believed it too. I spent my time thumbing through books during moments between training, drawing flower anatomies and nature deities in the gardens, sunbathing and swimming on the shores.

But something had changed.

I have changed.

Maybe, I've always known I could never live like this.

Softness was not meant for me. The first Vanas burned into life, rose from all that had fallen at his feet, and there is no beauty, no gentleness in survival.

My mother worries for me.

I grasp her hand, smile for a moment, looking at the flowers on the table. "Maybe it will be the last for awhile." Something clings on, tangled in bramble, yearning towards the sun. It holds my words and withers when I speak. "I think I'll spend more time training in the afternoons now."

There is a salve for everything from a garden – willow bark for muscle pain, valerian for nerves, sweet wormwood for fever – and this is my mother's.

I feel her ease. Her lips turn upwards, the lines around her eyes creasing faintly.

And I understand.

To survive, I must die first.

WE WERE ONLY DUST.

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

its 5am and i went sadfjhgfd on the keyboard
cb from pgt
ripred_bot

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

serving in all the ways it should.
forever enamored with your characters and writing. he's a flower with thorns!