Disclaimer: Fire Emblem does not belong to me. I make no profit.
1/10/07 First thing I've written for the New Year! Yay! This piece is a change in style for me. I tried to be a bit more descriptive than I usually am. I also read Fahrenheit 451, and if you've read it, you know it's so full of metaphors that you'll scream. This is kind of metaphor-ish, if you read some weird symbols in. And no, I didn't write it that way just to be cruel. And as always, please review! . It's always appreciated.
Edited: 2/18/08 Thanks Kitten Kisses.
[FE8:SS Eirika sits down to write. Looking outside and in, she tries to figure out what she's trying to say on a blank sheet of paper. One-shot. Implied SethEirika.
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I am looking outside the window. The sky is a bright silver—that color blue turns on winter days. The sun shines distantly from some unknown point in the sky; I know that if I go outside, I won't be able to find that light no matter how hard I try.
The orchard trees are barren of all leaves, and their scraggly limbs grasping towards the sky, even though they can never reach it. The bright green hue of the grass is obscured by the morning frost, creating a sea of ice as far as I can see. Parting that sea is a muddy road leading from the distant mountains towards the east entrance of the castle.
This frozen winterland is beautiful, but it is marred by the lines of the window panes before me. It sections everything off into their own individual sections; separate from everything else around them.
It would be such a beautiful scene on its own, if it were whole, but it's not. It's broken by such a simple thing meant to hold the window together. The window that stands between me and the outside. . .
I turn away from it and look down at the piece of parchment in front of me. It sits there, perched upon the plain-wood desk like a bird ready to take flight. A lonesome bird within the bareness of this desk. Nothing sits on it except the parchment, the necessary inkpot to the right, and a quill lying horizontally over the paper. I stare at this creamy bird ready to fly, but I know it won't disappear through the orchard and into the sky. I've clipped its wings.
My mind is as slow as the river while it's frozen: the river runs sure and strong underneath, but the surface has stopped. I can't tap into that wild strength-- the paper remains blank. And I can't wait for the black ink to run rampant over the paper.
My mind and body is filled with the urge to create something, my hands filled with the need to have something born from them. And that child will be on that paper. I know this is right, but I cannot seem to find the exact part of me that will be channeled into it.
I don't know what I need to write, I only know that I must. Feelings roil through me and run . . . feral. . . free, as if a bird's wings are flapping its feathers, touching everything inside of me. I cannot name any of these feelings. They come and go, in and out, like the tide. So fleeting and yet so complicated. . . Can I put a name to it?
Exhilaration, fear, anxiety, euphoria, sadness, joy, contentment. . . It's so hard to name each and every one of them. But it's especially hard to name that tightening in my chest, the pleasant, almost battle-like rush I feel whenever I think of him. Already, it rises up from the bottom of my soul and slowly bubbles to the tips of my fingers.
My hand reaches for the quill, even though I don't know what I'm going to do with it yet. As I hold it in my cold hands, it sends a chill up my arm--the sensation of the warm, prickly feathers. I twirl it around and watch the feathers float in the air and twist, twirl. Then I place it between my joints and reach out for the inkpot. I hold the bottle with my left hand while I gently unscrew the cap with my thumb and index finger of my other hand. I set the cap down and it makes a slight chink. It breaks the silence.
Chink. A crack in the ice appears.
In one fluid motion, the quill returns to the tips of my fingers. I quickly dip it in the ink and tap it against the edge of the bottle to rid it of excess ink. I bring the nib to the paper and let it rest there for a moment. Then, in one downward sweep, the river runs rampant.
x x x
I set the quill down to the side of the paper, not wanting to smear the wet ink. I look down at the rivers of ink that now run across the page. Once the ice cracked, the river couldn't be stopped. Words poured out so quickly I couldn't write everything down.
I lean back against the chair, letting it dig into my back. My arms slide uselessly off the desk and to my sides. My body relaxes. My head rolls back and I turn to look back out the window. The road is dry enough now that a rider could come through without trouble. I smile; he'll come back soon.
I push my chair back with my hands against the desk and rise slowly. I'm going to go outside. Already I can imagine how cold the air will be without any cloak. How my breath will come out in small puffs of smoke to join the ocean. . . The ocean of mist that will cover everything, the tall mountains rising above it. The peaks will be faintly white, the sides like the ocean cliffs. And radiating from the ground is the road. Running from the west and towards the east. He'll be riding in that direction: East, towards the castle.
I walk out the room and I look back for a moment. My paper lies alone on the desk, waiting to be found. I'll wait for it to be eventually found. It's his room, and I shouldn't be here, but I love the view. Still, I don't want to be caught.
I turn away.
He'll find it, and maybe we'll talk later. Maybe. He might not even know I wrote it. But I'm not going to worry about it. Right now, I want to see him riding triumphantly through the side-gate to the castle. And when he arrives, I'll greet him without any awkwardness.
Because these chains will corrode away and what will remain is love.
x x x
A song is sleeping in my chest,
Longing to break free.
It's like a bird flapping its restless wings,
Within the confines of my heart
Walking down the orchard's path;
It reminds me of time spent with you.
Watching you without saying anything,
Of that graceful silence that didn't need explanation.
And from that orchard a bird flew free
Into the peerless silver sky
A song is sleeping in my chest,
Longing to break free.
It's like a bird flapping its restless wings,
Within the confines of my heart.
Don't think that we need words,
Don't speak of things that mean nothing:
Like Duty, Honor, Broken Vows, and Blood.
Let's take a step back from this and just talk about us now.
A song is sleeping in my chest,
Longing to break free.
It's like a bird flapping its restless wings;
Within the confines of my heart.
Those shackled words are corroding
Into Freedom, Hope, Faith, and Love
Once released, will you just hold me?
Everything else will just settle afterwards.
Don't listen to the people who tell us this isn't right,
Because they don't know how deep this is.
Like a bird flapping its restless wings,
Without hesitation
Towards that future yet unseen,
Filled with that nameless melody.
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Well, there's the poem I wrote for this. Slightly influenced by Tori no Uta by Lia, Hikari by Utada Hikaru, and Reason by Nami Tamaki. Please tell me what you think. I tried to make it so that certain verses had the same number of syllables so it could be sung. It's the first time I tried to write something like that. So press that review button!
