MihailxIrina, HawkeyexOz. a rose, an candle, and five knights who are nothing. Though she is safe within her the crystal pagoda, the Divine Bird will never learn to fly.
Strange, and hopefully not strange enough to put you off. I'll be very, very grateful for comments, especially since this piece was very hard-worked.
::::::
circles of eternity
i.
The angels are fast asleep—their moonstone hearts are enfolded in the starlight, their great white wings feathered over palace eaves. Deep beyond the moonlight mists blanketing the crystal rooftops, the sky is changing, again—shedding its old raven feathers to bloom in glorious wedding white.
With a sigh, the Master of Souls allows the morning to slip off his fingers. The open vaults of the sky are clearer than the bottom of a wine glass, a butterfly's powdery wings—and in a circle entrapping him, the trellis arches are pale as diamond, rich as obsidian.
Beneath the cornflower dawn, Mihail finds himself wandering. He wanders, without aim and without purpose—moving through the gardens like a careless breeze, drifting like a child lost in a new city. Around him the arches are silent, but evermore the vines are whispering—pixies swinging on the fences with glittering smiles.
The secrets they whisper, there are so many—secrets upon the rustles of vines, secrets of Erev that he will never learn, however long he stays.
But I will stay forever, and I suppose that means I'll learn to whisper like them, eventually.
How long has he walked the pathways of heaven? Perhaps a century, perhaps two—two hundred years without shield or shelter, or even an umbrella. But there are no storms in this world, no rain and no shadow to fear. Mihail is appreciative of this fact, as much as any other person who hates being caught in the drizzle. The rain will rust my sword.
Yet so occasionally, he has dreams—fever dreams, of running through rain and being drenched, drunken, in a shower of liquid cold. And spiralling like a gannet in the breezes, plunging with a silver-bell splash into waves he has never seen before. Eternally lost, in a glimmering of light.
Am I only dreaming?
He glances at masked Ickhart, a shadow on the branches. I wonder what you dream of, he muses. Do you even dream?
Then, he pauses—a whirl of spices greets his consciousness: gold and frankincense and myrrh—a wind almost heralding from desert Ariant, lilting and spiced like a snake charmer's melody. But it is not Ariant, he knows: it is only wild, windy Irina—and her lips, and her hair—as she emerges from the vines with diamonds in her eyes. Her hair is star anise, her irises are saffron; her footsteps are like cinnamon in the breeze.[/p][p]"I heard that falling in love is like falling into an ocean," she whispers, an apparition on the stairway to the pagoda.
Irina's gaze is burning—burning, and oh so untamable. She is nothing like Oz, the little match-girl who sits forever by the altar, lighting the candle whenever it goes out. She is wildness—wildness like the vines in the balcony, wildness like the golden fire flashing in her eyes.
"Mihail, don't you sometimes wish we could escape?" she asks, taking a step down. "There's a world outside—and it's more wonderful than this place, I know."
"Outside? But we are bound, Irina," he calls back, sheathing his sword. "We made an oath upon the sky—to remain in Her Majesty's service, as long as we live."
"And how long, Mihail? We can live forever, without living at all!"
She sighs and leaps down the last stairs, to where he stands. Mihail only has a moment to glance up at her—she is beside him in a twinkling, taking his hand and pressing something into his palm.
A rose hip: wrinkled and dry, but so full of life.
"Take good care of it," she whispers into his ear, "and you can plant the seeds when we finally leave." There is laughter in her words. "They are fragile, and roses are hard to grow."
"Why not give me a rose then?"
But she leaves him no answer—only an echo, and a whiff of blossom perfume where she once leaned on the rails.
::::::
That's because a rose hip can grow and flourish, Mihail. A rose is dead, even before it is in your palms.
::::::
WARNING: The rest of the story is in the same style, if not stranger. If this isn't your cup of tea, you can stop here. It's fine.