scionofwisdom:
Do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?
She stood out at the precipice of her gardens before they merged onto the main road that would take her down to Castle Town. But she moved not from where she stood, not even when the cool air turned into a forceful breeze or when the clouds billowed and brought forth thunder. She moved not; the Princess stood there like a pillar, unsupported and alone as her auburn tresses whipped about her face violently, ashen-blue orbs gazing out at Farore’s blessings. The Goddesses had done their work well when they created Hyrule, for there could not be a more beautiful kingdom in her eyes. Pride was what kept her grounded; a vice, she knew, but any ruler would have pride for their lands, as they should.
It had been several months since the twilight had tried to engulf the light. The peoples of Hyrule were getting back on their feet from the siege that took their kingdom and Princess, carrying on as if nothing had happened, as none of them were present to witness the destruction that had befallen the kingdom. Their bodies had turned into spirits, as they were not protected by the Goddesses like she was. By their protection was she allowed to remain as she was as the Twili took over; by her magic and her connection to Nayru, the Goddess of Wisdom, she aided the chosen Hero and the fallen Princess of Twilight to banish the darkness that had crept out from the Sacred Realm.
They say it is the only time when our world intersects with theirs…
And when the battle had finally ended, the evil sent back into the abyss, light returned to the land and the gateway between realms had been closed off forever. The gateway, in the form of a mirror, had been destroyed, allowing none to pass through. It was a device left behind by the Goddesses, and the Princess knew why it was left there in the desert. Destined to meet, the Twili and the Hylians had come to understand that light and darkness were of the same coin, however, not of the same side; one could not exist without the other.
Though the gateway had been sealed off, there were still subtle nuances that told the Princess the Twili were never far behind. Like a mirror, they were the opposite of what was Hyrule. If she were to look upon a body of water, its surface would show her reflection back; however, there was more to it than just that. A darkness resided deep within her, one that had always been there, but it flourished when Ganon had took possession of her body and used her to try and destroy the Hero. It was nothing more than a speck, but she knew that if triggered, there would be nothing to stop it from poisoning her mind. Death seemed like a better choice than to allow the darkness to engulf her.
The only time we can feel the lingering regrets of spirits who have left our world.
A darkness so palpable that it frightened her. A fear like nothing known, she dreaded when the time came that she would be beyond salvation. Who would be there to save her when she fell? Would anyone come to deliver the final blow that would end it all? If it was not by the sword of an enemy, then it would be by her own doing. To let the darkness overtake her and twist her mind and make those she held dear suffer was a fate worse than death. Death would be too easy, she mused, for it gave her a release. And somewhere deep down, she grimaced at the thought that she deserved to suffer. For all the strife and pain she had caused, not in just this lifetime but in those previous; mistakes that would always haunt her even though centuries passed.
There was no end to this suffering. A burden so vast that she was forced to carry, and carry it she would alone. It was not enough that she had become the vessel to Nayru, nor was it enough that she was the sole matriarch of an entire kingdom without aid or husband – it was never enough. She was destined to suffer alone. And by Goddesses, she would carry this weight upon her shoulders like a man carrying a boulder up a mountain. Ordeals would come and she would face them, as she was meant to, and carry on like she was supposed to. For someone like her, pain, internally, was not meant to be seen when an entire kingdom looked to her for guidance.
That is why loneliness always pervades the hour of twilight…
Taking in a breath, she tore herself away from the scenery as the air took on a biting chill that nipped at her skin. It was about time to return and retire for the night, the sun having nearly set behind the horizon. Verdant fields and whispering trees covered in a fleeting golden light as stars poked out from their velvet blanket, the moon slowly rising to guide them through the night sky. For now, as night slowly descended, she saw the lights of the town coming to life, giving fleeting merchants enough time to pack up their belonging and head on indoors. Now was the time for those who enjoyed the night and all it had to offer. Taverns would remain open until the wee hours of the morning, giving those who needed time to drown their troubles in tumblers of ale and jugs of wine, or give those who wanted to cavort and be merry and loud as the night wax and waned until the morning light told them that tomorrow would be another day.
Come morning light, the Princess would don on her formal attire and sit upon a chair, overseeing documents and papers that would ensure another trade route for Hyrule to gain; another tangible form of prosperity for her people to benefit from. But it was for the good of these lands, and her people deserved to live comfortable lives. Walking through the castle corridors, tapestries and friezes etched within them symbols passed down by generations of the Royal Family, all depicting the same story told through various lifetimes; the Goddesses, the Princess, the chosen Hero, the Sages, and the Demon King.
Just as she was nearing her bedchambers, a maidservant approached her, her features scrunched up in worry and confusion.
“Your Majesty,” she bowed before uttering another word, “There is a strange man in the main hall. The guards are on their way to oversee it, but perhaps you should be summoned as well for such a matter?”
Zelda looked at the maidservant with an unwavering expression before nodding gently and following the young woman to the main hall.
Ancient royalty is glimpsed in sidewalk chalk.
The crimson-clad soldier can envision it. This place so beautiful, so majestic, so cloyingly sureal. He closes delicate, heavy-lashed peachy lids and a picturesque images haunts the very confines of hims mind. He cares not of how he ended up here; answers are not meant to be begged of, they are awarded with good behavior, are they not? And the poet would never go around barking for explanation to things that seem impossible to both the psyche and the body, and so he drinks the lovely view in. Light glinting off her crown, she draws, floating down the cobble stones and when she sits, it’s on majestic cotton-ball clouds. An odd image, but it is just; what he imagines is not a battalion commanded by a stern king. When she types, everything comes out knotted and not all queen-like or famously beautiful. She enjoys the sky-blue chalk between her fingers and kneeling and creating epics on the sun-warmed concrete sidewalk. Her head is held up as if a heavy pharaoh’s crown perched upon her intricate hair and no one would ever guess that she, a modern nefertiti would take pleasure in kneeling before her swords, her subjects. Absolutely sublime, this sceney, as it stirs the adamant lyricist from within and a slight smirk dances across cherry-thin folds, chestnut strands placing themselves in his line of vision.
He does not choose to wait for the men and women to escort him anywhere. He knows that this is a place of royalty, confidential and stuck to written rules but because Genesis is one that pleasures to break them, he trudges through the barriers of long-forgotten respect. Resplendent eyes of pure tourmaline shimmer at the sight in front of him as she walks to grace his presence. Hands. Faint rosin-smudges carefully tracing bone, emphasized accentuated by crushed-flower purple, being swallowed by each ridge in the palm of her other hand, an unlikely virtuoso. Forearms, marred by invisible scares, red-blue veins violent piano key solid tinged with gracefulness (rarely off-key and theoretically difficult impossible, theoretically selfish). Shoulders, blues-thick melancholy embodied personified, call return; without return guitar strings trembling and a note breaking down into sputtered of a song, half-completed music sheets.
Chest. The Wall of Troy rebuilt and destroyed, layers of silver-wire sculpture; slivers of solidified vibrato, a velvet silk mesh of tremble and gloss, diaphragm diagrammed by notes, a living harp echoing continuously. Throat. Trachea-ridges carving shadows into peachy skin, cartilage rings against rings vibrating soft—smooth laughter capturing a voice sounds poetry within her elegant ribs. Mouth. Real cherry-red, dark-flamboyant, pulchritudinous and humble—jazz seductive with taunt strings and sax-harsh notes frozen into caught water words—a slow melody of harmony. Eyes. Shrouded stars set in bone, sun-drenched oceans and a haze of inherited and inhibited petal-grade swirling together a medley of tangible manifestation—thoughts uncaptured but moving in perpetual motion. Hair. Quill-woven spider silk and tawny-thick; a sea of grain under a watered-down sky—rich and fragile, lustrous. Cheeks. Attractive resolve, bones set high in a music mosaic face, too expressive but still vehement behemoth all stick shadows and violin—
You’re classically gorgeous. To you, my new song of songs: I will outline every piece of you until you are nothing but simple language.
He’s cesium, toxic, beautiful as butterfly dust and radioactive cscl, be sweet and carcinogenic, mg, ca, sr (burns water with just a glance). He’s quicksilver fast and stunning when he moves, a sure w (a fake sun) and as he runs an elegant hand through lovely tawny locks of his own (he’s like oxygen and fool’s gold—a diamond and soot together, like drinking liquid nitrogen) he sighs. Flirting f, clinging cl, breathtaking br irresistible i he understands what dreams are made of, but the stars are made of h and he’s h2o, breaking salts apart, conflicted separated ions struggling to stay apart/together. He’s the earth, ocean, and air, c, h, o, and n (and he’s c10h14n2 and c17h21no4—an impure c11h15no2.) A walking chemical reaction.
With those exotic, uptilted eyes that spoke of Egypt and electric blue sunset rivers and that honey-amber delighted purr he puts one arm in front of him and bows like the respectable man that he is. “You must be the queen here?” comes a soothing voice of countertenor. Automatically the warrior perceived the woman to be the matriarch in charge; no one else around her illuminated grace like she did. Hitherto rising up and demanding numerous questions to be answered, the poet simply indulges on the many depictions strewn across the walls, closing auburn-lashed lids and inhaling. “Pablo Picasso once said, love, that women are either goddesses or doormats. I trust you are anything but the latter, yes?” And then abruptly he rises, coy smile dancing on his text-book perfect face. Familiarity is scarce here, and as such the Commander is a bit wary to fully express himself.
“My deepest apologizes, but I must have startled your people with my wear,” he mummers, exhaling softly through his nose. “Ah, yes, I am Genesis Rhapsodos, First Class SOLDIER.” Of course those words bring with them a faint smirk. “My slippery grip on your world is a perilous dilemma, I do believe. Most cohesive of thoughts proclaim a firmer purchase would allow for stability, for balance, but the tossing and turning of waves that mar your castle and splash ashore is inebriating, in the most glorious sense. I am not sure I want to go back.”
