paradigm restoration } { eckharts } { open

[Avalon]

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W O L F S B A N E

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teach

me

Smoke filled between the thin walls of tattered lungs, poisoning a temple where the flames licked against flesh, and the only sensation found in its replacement was a burning and an itching. A commercial body was founded by conquerors who'd only sketched and printed plans for an industrial factory where, with each manufactured product, smoke fueled by a wild fire set ablaze to get a job done quickly. There was needles pressed into veins as arms were restrained almost to the point of where a pulse would yet to be found if I'd kept up the act. It was arm grasping fetters that sent my blood rush to a close halt, only to feel once again when a solace was sent coursing through ichor, and the only sensation was a high I never wish I endured. Though, when everyone else is already fucking this life ( I simply don't think I can call it mine anymore ) up enough, then who's to say I couldn't become the cause?


Capitulum Unus—
Pars. I—

The first page of our book had begun with a tear drop that led to too many stains to count along the blurred lines of ink. Handwritten scripture against paper, made from the fountain pen that shifted unsteadily- seized between trembling fingers, each note left as nothing more than a mere scribble along the often tearing page it left as a trail, though it was something I hadn't registered through smoggy eyes, for the tears were breaking, lashing against my vision. ( "Come now— take off your clothes, Wolfsbane." ) Obliging in a state of disarray, all I could manage was an unfocused stare into her blonde hair and mesmerizing pale green eyes. I sloshed away the streaming trails that threatened to emanate from my chin, focusing on the churning of my stomach from the inside out. She'd thrown needle to wooden floor and smoke filled my corrupt lungs, but all that could escape was only the sparks consumed so that no more were left in existence. I set wild fires to the white concrete walls of my temple, forgetting that they were made to keep the inferno out. ( "How eerie, truly, you've seemed to have lost your way." ) I whisper no words of satire in return to the ghosts who never made a true presence. My lungs are purely too frangible.


I was building a symphony of my own. The notes rose like cooling embers from the vibrations of steel core strings fixed along the polished, wooden neck of Jequirity. Her attendance is present in the unseen audience, though I can feel the pressuring weight opposing the gliding rhythm that echoes through the silent hallways where her phantom resides in place of a tangible warm body. I reminisce in the moment where'd I'd witnessed Iris throw herself against Jequirity's coffin, she wore her emotions on her sleeve, though I couldn't blame her. Staring into the void of an empty shell of a human being- of my sister- who was no longer attached at even her seams, I faced her stoic in appearance but on the inside a natural disaster had struck. ( "It has already rampaged, the tables have turned, and it has left a mess for you in return. Perhaps- just perhaps—" ) A disaster may strike twice, though each time we prepare for the next before one can only take so much. ( "You're weak hearted, and this is not the right time." ) There never is a right time.


My body is a temple that was terraformed- one that has gained nothing but a speck, though lost all the matter it'd once contained. ( "We are our own unrepeatable temples, carried by a perambulating skeleton. You, Wolfsbane, you will never be able to be made again. How dare you?" ) I'd spent my time grieving with my whole being, and drinking the sorrows that always brimmed the cup, starting with sips from an overflow before I became hooked. I'd made an exchange, one that cannot be looked over, and I traded my own talents for learning to bow the strings of Jequirity just like the prodigy once had. ( "I'd learned it all for Jequirity." ) A canary bird sings again, it has gained a new voice in replace of its old, I stepped sole to concrete upon a home that never belonged to me. Tempus Opera House. Jequirity's true domain, I found myself pulled by a tether, refusal to resist an urge so strong. ( as though Jequirity, herself, had pulled me to this very spot, perhaps she thought I was ready ) Pulling Jequirity from her leather back case, I fixed her at the base of my neck, a concrete jungle outside the opera house, I hadn't a care in the world for the passing crowds. Closing my eyes for but seconds at a time, I bowed the steel strings, vibrations filled the air once again in melody and rhythm of the tattered up music sheets that lay scrawled on the floor at my feet. Sheets signed manu propria with a signature that swooped to form the name 'Wolfsbane' set right aside Jequirity's. ( "Each a unique collision— how dare you waste a second thinking something better will happen when it ends. Your life—" ) I simply don't think I can call it mine anymore.

the pain

of  g r o w t h

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E C K H A R T

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[arx!!]

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I R I D I U M

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what makes night

within us

I've plucked the strings a thousand times, let my fingertips dance across smooth ivory keys dozens more, but the allure just isn't there. I pluck a string and it vibrates for a moment before growing still. I press down on a key—two, three, four—and all I feel is the subtle knock of ivory against wood. I look over her sheet music and I see something beautiful there. Notes dance effortlessly across the page, ink smudges in just the right places; even her horrendous handwriting has an elegance to it. But when I draw the bow over the strings of the violin, press my fingers to the keys of the piano, scream into the now empty basement—I don't feel it. I don't hear it. I don't--

Fingers curl over my shoulder and I flinch. I turn to recognize Mom, but spin away again and swipe at the tears that drip down my face. I told myself I would be stronger (I won't cry in front of anyone, not again.) and keep the tears to myself. But Moms always seem to catch me off guard, always seem to be there to see the pain. Sometimes they hold back tears; sometimes they curl up in bed with me and cry, too. This time it's only me. This time I don't want to cry.

I wiggle my way out of her grasp and jump off my bed, the cold floor shocking my bare feet. (Is this what it felt like for Jequirity? The cold?) I sniffle and rub my hand over my face one last time before I move my hands frustratedly. 'I'm fine, alright?' She nods, though I can see the hurt in her eyes. She's burying it as deeply as she possibly can. I don't want to be angry, I don't want to shout or storm out. But everything about her appearance makes me want to leave. So I do—'Don't follow me.'—and I slam every door behind me, begging my ears to hear just one of them.

By the time I've grown completely conscious of what I am doing I am outside, opening and closing the heavy front door, pulling it shut with as much force as I can muster. One more time, one more slammed door—this time I will hear it, this time, this time, this--- I scream until my throat aches, cry until my tear ducts run out of water to pull from my body, slam the door until my arms grow too tired to move. I sit on the front steps, head buried in my knees. I float in and out of consciousness as my eyes flutter open and shut, eyelashes kissing the rough cracked skin on my knees.

One moment I am asleep. The next, wishing I could fall back into a dream. I can't draw, I can't write. The smell of fresh ink doesn't spark my interest, nor does the feeling of a calligraphy pen in my hand. I know Jeq was only one part of my life—just the smallest of pieces in one of the largest of puzzles—but I feel the hole, the missing piece. No one hangs incomplete jigsaw puzzles on their wall; they throw them out. I feel my lip quiver at the idea of it. I don't want to be thrown out. They won't kick me out because I cry too loudly, right?

("Are you okay?") The kids at school ask.

I slap my hand over my mouth, nod my head. ('Yes.')

But the teachers sit me in the hallway anyway. They claim I am too disruptive. ("Get over it, kid.")

I take a stuttering breathe, lift my head—'Wolfsbane?' But she doesn't see me as she passes, doesn't see my hand form the words I use to call to her: Wolfpack. I think about calling out to her, trying to form the sounds and letters that form her name, but she has already rounded the corner and disappeared. No sense in making a fool of myself with untrained lips and vocal cords. But my feet do find their footing, racing after her where my voice fears to.

She circles through the District, snaking along paths and roads I have never traveled. She carries a violin. The violin. And perhaps I should've guessed she would end up here—Tempus Opera House. My throat swells shut as my heart twists into knots and my eyes burn with fresh tears. I've never visited this place, never felt the need. I grew bored and fidgety every time I watched Jeq play so my parents never made me attend an opera.

I'm only here now, when it's too late.

I watch her, hidden behind a corner, as she pulls the violin from its case. She spreads the sheet music out in front of her, an ocean of white against dark pavement. She looks just as beautiful as Jequirity did when she played. But no one turns their head like they did when Jeq played, no one stops to pay attention or looks on in mesmerization. I wipe at the tears that stream down my cheek, spinning around the corner and running to Wolfsbane with nothing more than the childish need to hug her carrying me forward.

I run into her, wrapping my arms around her waist without much of a care whether or not she wants it or not. I bury my face in her clothes, letting the linen and the warmth of her body comfort me as the tears and sobs rack my body. I hold her tighter, closer. Don't leave me, I beg silently.

She left me. Wolfsbane, please don't leave me.

may leave

s t a r s

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E C K H A R T

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table creds to avalon

[Tom]

Description/writing, Speaking , Thinking , Hears

Twice. That’s as many times as Riordan has been broken down into an almost crushed state of being. It’s happened twice in his lifetime. The lungs that seemed to be blocked by the sobs that barely escape his already dry esophagus, carry throughout the changing room that’s been repurposed into his bedroom. The sob of a broken man with a broken life. The silence of a place that used to hold life transformed the house into a graveyard full of broken dreams and empty promises.

Three. That’s the amount of bodies that had come from the once lively and happy placed. Bodies that had once brought a wave of happiness into the house, but now only a disaster of sorrow that fills the atmosphere with death and decay. Happiness was no longer around when all of the world kept throwing sorrow and sadness to the one place that was supposed to fill people with joys of a better life. A life that could be considered better than their mediocre jobs and mediocre life that contained problems of sickness and corruption.

Notes, songs, operas, plays, and instruments. That’s all that is in the building. People fled the place for fears of bad luck absorbing into their skin, sealing their death away to the fates of the world. Riordan, on the other hand, was glued to the wretched place that held memories that caused pain to set his organs on fire and cause the salty, broken tears to climb down his face. Memories that are too hard to swallow push their way up into the present space, only to break Riordan even more than he already was.

Broken men can only create broken pieces. The melody of music that Riordan had once been able to create and perform in all elegances were vanishing right before his very eyes. Pieces of his creativity and originality had vanished into the now seemingly lost mind that sat in Riordan’s skull, waiting for the art to come back into its possession. The muse that once had a place in the world was parading in the vast world of pleasantries known as the afterlife. Life as Riordan knew it was transforming into a state of conformity and normativity. The creativity that once filled the void of averageness in his life was being taken away by death herself, just to torture his already broken soul. Just to hold it against him like some sort of bargaining chip that whispered to his very being and made him shake in agonizing terror. It’s all your fault, Riordan. You could have saved her, if you weren’t so weak.

Weak. That’s all Riordan was. A weak and broken man who had lost everything that he once held dear. Lost and misguided. The goodness in his soul being replaced with addictions and violence like it has done multiple times before. A coping mechanism that Riordan had created for himself. The golden liquid slowly burning the dry esophagus into submission. A state of numb crossing through his body giving Riordan the numbness needed to keep himself balanced on the scales of life.

The creaking of a door sending a chill down Riordan’s spine causing the feeling of danger into his bones. A silent step forward. The silence broken only for a small second allowing his body to feel something new that the broken man hadn’t felt in days, curiosity. Another silent step forward sends more chills up his spine. The curtains of red standing as they have always been. A piece missing from the fabric causing Riordan’s heart to swell up with a guilt that could never be taken out of his system.

Seat twenty three is mounted into its place, causing a grouping of emotions that range from the sensation of sorrow to the flutter of butterflies in his stomach to violently be fighting his state of being. The whites of papers litter the stage as notes of a broken memory fills the open room. Echoes of the melodic notes hitting his ears sending waves of happiness and sadness into his whole body only to break the rest of his own body into pieces. A knife that cuts him like the knife that caused a world of calm to become a world of sorrows and broken people.

The neck of Jequirity’s violin sits in the arms of a girl whose beauty could easily be compared to Jequirity’s beauty. Clear evidence of an Eckhart by any means. The woman’s presence only fills Riordan’s lost mind with thoughts of what could have been. The violin’s notes calling to its owner, just screaming to be played by the master that it once had. The instrument’s cry for its master only being silenced by the emotions of the Eckhart that was playing it in the way Jequirity would play it. The emotions that were portrayed by the Eckhart causing Riordan’s heart to want to reach out and grab the Eckhart. A want to try and make her feel something that wasn’t the consistent feeling of broken heartedness.

The notes begin to dwindle down into the silence that once filled the atmosphere of the building. A small sound of a child’s footsteps linger the echoing walls of the building. Riordan’s chest pains at the sight that stands before him. Another smaller Eckhart holds onto the older Eckhart. A hug that probably fills both Eckharts with a sense of love that can weaken the dull pain of sorrows, if only for a moment.

The broken man didn’t have the same strength as the Eckharts did. Riordan was weak in every way possible. Behind the curtains, this was the only place that felt comfortable for the broken man. Behind the curtains were the only place that he could stand still stuck in his broken soul and not interrupt the innocent and loving moment that the two Eckharts were having. Behind the curtains, there was a man. A man who couldn’t save the only people that he loved. He couldn’t save Theseus Rhodium. He couldn’t save Naveen Casovnik. He couldn’t save Jequirity Eckhart. Three names. Three deaths. Three times. That’s the amount of times Riordan Einfallen has failed.

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

ELVAINA ECKHART

♫

they say i made the moon

One last song, she said, one last song.

Skin on my face is cracked and worn from the smiles, coerced by a glance of pity or a condolence, that have speared across my cheeks. ("I'm so sorry about your sister." "My condolences for Jequirity." "She didn't deserve to die." "The Hunger Games takes something from us all." "I am so, so sorry, Elvaina." "May she rest in peace.")

They will pry once more, they will ask if I am alright. And I will say, mustering shattered strength from my shattered core, "Yes, thank you." They will nod and smile back, and move on with their day.

But I cannot.
I cannot raise my hands in one deft movement to push away the curtains of darkness that shroud every corner, every cranny, of my world. They bask in their daylight, pass it to one another with a curve of their lips. But I see no daylight for I know only darkness; daylight has long surrendered against her shadow.

I have not surrendered, not yet -
but I stand still as a statue, eyes blankly gazing down at Iridium and Wolfsbane, locked in an embrace.
I fear that if I breathe, the sobs will break loose
and they will not halt.

(ooc: hi i am blitzing this for blitz day uwu)

table:arx.

everything was in the dark