#// do i tag that as that.. hmmm. sorry these asks are old akhfksf

[asphuxia]

@ganglotte sent:

She thinks she is dreaming at first.

         Surely the Eir she sees among the crowd is a mirage, an illusion created by whatever is wrong with the village. Ganglöt had not thought it would be so easy to find her; she did not want it to be so easy to find her.

         Did she ever want to find her at all? Why is it that she feels she would have rather not found Eir at all, that she would have been more content with the idea of revenge, of Eir?

         There is no time to think of such things now; Ganglöt pushes through the crowd (which is not a very difficult task, as they part for her), until she is right behind Eir, scythe in hand. Now, I can do it now, I must do it now. Eir will not even know who had struck her.

         Ganglöt tenses, ready to swing; she knows just where to strike the princess. How many times had she watched Hel strike down her own daughter? How many times had she watched Eir fall, studied the slow arc her body made as Death stole over her face?

         It is different, though, to do it with her own hands. It is easier to watch. It is slower when she watches.

         “...Eir.”

         It surprises her, her own decision to speak. A million taunts and threats teeter on the tip of her tongue, but she does not voice them. Instead, a demand spills forth:

         “You will come back from this moon’s fiasco alive. I will not permit you to die by anyone’s hand but my own. …am I clear?"

It had been a moment of sordid naivety for Eir to believe that the dead would not return to life.

The blade makes itself known to her before she needs to witness it, the bold flirt of death with her soul a well-memorised dance. It is a presence none are wont to forget, and the regent least of all; from the distance, she registers its knife-bright edge parting crowd and soul alike. The world itself seemed to quiet around her— the surrounding chatter but a buzz in the air, so remote and isolated, one could have imagined it. Within that brief void of all else, the thin space between nonexistence and reality, it was as though life had begun to kneel in death’s presence.

At the end of the scythe, Eir stills. Within the moments it takes for her to compose herself, flowers wilt and blossom beneath her feet; the sovereign’s affinities at odds with her. Softly, a sigh disguised as an exhale escapes her— drawn out and slow, lest her fear might crawl once more into the hollow of her soul. It takes all of her strength to resist the anger that rolls over her in waves, the threat of viscera so palpable in the air. It is unbecoming of her, she knows; so far removed of all of her true mother’s grace and sensibility, so deeply entrenched in the constant need to survive. At the sound of Ganglöt’s voice, it takes just a little more not to recoil.

Instead, Eir straightens her back, irons out her posture, and breathes.

“… You seem to get ahead of yourself,” she answers, countenance serene— yet her once gentle tone unsheathes naught but a blade’s edge. It is with a strange inflection that she speaks, a veil of apathy drawn over a voice otherwise warm with compassion. When enough of her had been ripped away, stolen from her very fingers; when her identity had been washed away like blood— that was when Eir had discovered true emotion. That was when she began to harden and grow sharp, not at a loss of love for the world, but an important part of her heart— at the loss of a soul. At Ganglöt’s mercy, she had lost all she had ever loved and never known. Now, the handmaiden is at hers, and Eir is all but Hel’s empathetic, merciful death. “You mistake me for someone who will bend to you. You believe I remain the sweet girl you bring to slaughter.”

When she turns to face the other woman, gaze falling first upon the scythe, her visage fixes an expression she has never felt nor worn. Eir wants to gasp for air, to cry out for someone, anyone. She wants to grab her mother’s handmaiden and weep into her arms, to beg for lives past— what they had once shared. Eir wants to plead for her adoration even when it had come in the form of a blade against her neck. But ultimately, she does not, and she discards every intent to surrender herself to her memories. Sapphire eyes are steely, restrained; and when they meet Ganglöt’s, one could almost claim them cold. Then Eir smiles, icily, in a manner that is hardly a smile at all.

“No, Ganglöt. Let me make this clear. I will not die by your hand. I will not lose what little I have left.” Is it for herself that she says these things, that she dares not flinch nor cower? The life of which her mother’s soul sustains tells her everything but. There is a deafening roar in her ears, her heart a rebellious creature within the confines of her chest. Each word is a struggle, barely withheld in its simmering anger; even so, Eir manages. She speaks carefully, deliberately— letting not a single syllable understate her emotion, her rare expense of fury. Well-buried within her voice lies a pain so carnal and thinly contained, it threatens to rip through her throat. It is the truth that spills unbidden from her mouth. “Not to you, not to Hel, not to anyone. Take care that it is not you who dies at mine.”

It registers, mere seconds late, what she has said after she says it— and Eir finds that she means each word in their entirety. At her side, the arcane reaper is an intrusive presence. It aids only to cement the sovereign’s every impression, to justify all measures of her caution. Ganglöt’s eyes betray her approach, speaks for her every intention gone unsaid; Life’s queen knows better than to hope for anything less. It is Hel’s handmaiden, after all— and she knew best those she once loved.

As her voice leaves her, so too does her anger; Eir draws back, quieting her heart. It aches in its wake, praying for reprieve— it is too much, too much. All but a pride born of deaths not rightfully hers begs her not to falter, to finish just as strongly as she had started. It is with that same pride that she rolls back her shoulders, and her eyes do not begin to water. It is with that pride that she ignores the hollow emptiness that pools in her heart. She has never felt so fragile, so vulnerable in dignity. The quiet tremble of her hands come to a decisive halt.

“… and before you manage kill me,“ Eir leans towards Ganglöt, voice low; the words leave her lips barely more than a whisper, a final warning, “you will continue to address me as ‘Lady Eir’.”

Then she leaves Ganglöt as the handmaid has always been left— behind.

#✎ 𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐗. answered┊❝ if you are tired… i’ll help you sleep. just for the night— not forever. ❞ #➶ 𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐓. ┊❝ the wolf loved the rabbit‚ and confessed with its teeth. ❞ #✧ 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓. keras kai elephas┊ guard. #keguard2023 #// do i tag that as that.. hmmm. sorry these asks are old akhfksf #// oh boy! an eir can have so many [MIXED FEELINGS] #// i’m looking forward to seeing how their dynamic plays out… puts them in baby fight enclosure #// ty for the ask aigis :) i will kill you and eat you raw #// also TY TO KAERI FOR THE ICON BORDER im gonna show this off whenever the chance arises #// aka all my ask replies following this post :) hehe :)