[zephyr] :: the reaping
May 9, 2020 2:21:43 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on May 9, 2020 2:21:43 GMT -5
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Call it hubris, but you knew you had time. You were wrong.
You're not special; you've spent too long fighting to save the world from itself to think that you were deigned above anyone else. Each page preserved in that cavernous room (now fuller, now warm with candlelight) was not a testament to God's spotlight shining on your face, but to your own labor, your own sacrifices, your own luck. The facts though, do not change the deep feeling of betrayal that seeps in your stomach. It is toxic; if you let it, the burn will ruin you.
At the very least, you deserved time: to make choices, to make mistakes, to find out who you are, to decide who you want to become, to know who you have always been. And with a single slip of paper, that has been ripped away. Chastity Nightmare. Aisha Aquino. Petra Vanburen, and You.
You've learned a lot over the years: that you like tea better than boiled water, and boiled water better than coffee, because the way coffee lingers in the back of your throat is appalling at best; that you are one of the 4-14% of people who can only describe cilantro as soap-esque, yet you will eat it anyway lest you face your mother's scorn—if deprived of bahn mi she will surely bring down the Capitol with her own two hands; that Brutalism deserves more praise—it is beautiful, fundamental, and accessible—regardless of what others say; that you must be careful when you walk through abandoned railways, for the sound of a train bounces off the walls until you can't pinpoint its direction; that sometimes you say too much and think too little until too late, that your words can be sharper than a knife ever will be.
And that "☐☐☐☐☐☐☐ Kestell", booming across a courtyard, rings false. Off-key.
You wring your hands together and seethe; a dragon's anger lies between gritted teeth. You don't know how much of this is shock at being called upon, or dread at the thought of murder, or a mixture of instinctual fear that you may die and a surprisingly severe disappointment that it may be in a half-assed building dedicated to uber-Roman idolatry and boorish taste. Or something you cannot, do not want to, describe, when faces first turn to search the other side of the pool.
Because "That's. Not. My. Fucking. Name." (Eyes snap towards you. Marco? Polo.)
But.
What is your name? It cannot be [zephyr]. You love [zephyr]. You love the way she sounds, the confidence that she gives you, the road you have walked with her as your cloak. You have picked her from a book you risked your life to protect. You have resonated with the fables and tales, of the western wind and her sacrifices, her gentle strength. But claiming her today means condemning all you know. You thought yourself a gardener in The Assemblage, tending to seeds that had yet to turn into a forest. It is not time to burn it; the saplings have barely begun to peek out of the dirt.
What person doesn't—
You want to kick yourself for not thinking of this scenario. You hadn't bothered to fill out any paperwork; there were the small reasons and the large, like the war that loomed in front of your doorstep, and the insecurity of mail in its aftermath, and that you were planning to last month but you had a midterm the next day and a dangerous shift of sorting books in the catacombs, and the bitter knowledge that the Capitol didn't care enough to respect your beating heart—so why would they respect your life?
But it was also the list of words folded in your desk drawer, scrawled with a careful hand, with alternate intonations and incantations. It was you, speaking them out loud at the bathroom mirror and finding faults in the lilts and the vowels. It was the way your mother's eyes looked at your first choice, and your dad's furrowed brow at the second, and how hard you chewed on the side of your mouth when they suggested a third.
You'd tried out Zee, then Zamia. And they were close, but just stepping stones, not landing points.
You had time. You deserved time. You needed time. But you should have known better: time never stops to let you catch your breath. And you realize, as the Keepers lock your arm in a firm grip and shove you away from the crowd, that they do not care enough to ask.
cw: dead naming, transphobia, micro-aggressions
Call it hubris, but you knew you had time. You were wrong.
You're not special; you've spent too long fighting to save the world from itself to think that you were deigned above anyone else. Each page preserved in that cavernous room (now fuller, now warm with candlelight) was not a testament to God's spotlight shining on your face, but to your own labor, your own sacrifices, your own luck. The facts though, do not change the deep feeling of betrayal that seeps in your stomach. It is toxic; if you let it, the burn will ruin you.
At the very least, you deserved time: to make choices, to make mistakes, to find out who you are, to decide who you want to become, to know who you have always been. And with a single slip of paper, that has been ripped away. Chastity Nightmare. Aisha Aquino. Petra Vanburen, and You.
You've learned a lot over the years: that you like tea better than boiled water, and boiled water better than coffee, because the way coffee lingers in the back of your throat is appalling at best; that you are one of the 4-14% of people who can only describe cilantro as soap-esque, yet you will eat it anyway lest you face your mother's scorn—if deprived of bahn mi she will surely bring down the Capitol with her own two hands; that Brutalism deserves more praise—it is beautiful, fundamental, and accessible—regardless of what others say; that you must be careful when you walk through abandoned railways, for the sound of a train bounces off the walls until you can't pinpoint its direction; that sometimes you say too much and think too little until too late, that your words can be sharper than a knife ever will be.
And that "☐☐☐☐☐☐☐ Kestell", booming across a courtyard, rings false. Off-key.
You wring your hands together and seethe; a dragon's anger lies between gritted teeth. You don't know how much of this is shock at being called upon, or dread at the thought of murder, or a mixture of instinctual fear that you may die and a surprisingly severe disappointment that it may be in a half-assed building dedicated to uber-Roman idolatry and boorish taste. Or something you cannot, do not want to, describe, when faces first turn to search the other side of the pool.
Because "That's. Not. My. Fucking. Name." (Eyes snap towards you. Marco? Polo.)
But.
What is your name? It cannot be [zephyr]. You love [zephyr]. You love the way she sounds, the confidence that she gives you, the road you have walked with her as your cloak. You have picked her from a book you risked your life to protect. You have resonated with the fables and tales, of the western wind and her sacrifices, her gentle strength. But claiming her today means condemning all you know. You thought yourself a gardener in The Assemblage, tending to seeds that had yet to turn into a forest. It is not time to burn it; the saplings have barely begun to peek out of the dirt.
What person doesn't—
You want to kick yourself for not thinking of this scenario. You hadn't bothered to fill out any paperwork; there were the small reasons and the large, like the war that loomed in front of your doorstep, and the insecurity of mail in its aftermath, and that you were planning to last month but you had a midterm the next day and a dangerous shift of sorting books in the catacombs, and the bitter knowledge that the Capitol didn't care enough to respect your beating heart—so why would they respect your life?
But it was also the list of words folded in your desk drawer, scrawled with a careful hand, with alternate intonations and incantations. It was you, speaking them out loud at the bathroom mirror and finding faults in the lilts and the vowels. It was the way your mother's eyes looked at your first choice, and your dad's furrowed brow at the second, and how hard you chewed on the side of your mouth when they suggested a third.
You'd tried out Zee, then Zamia. And they were close, but just stepping stones, not landing points.
You had time. You deserved time. You needed time. But you should have known better: time never stops to let you catch your breath. And you realize, as the Keepers lock your arm in a firm grip and shove you away from the crowd, that they do not care enough to ask.
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