A welcome to the new and a hello to the old and awkward phrasing with some word ramble.

faeries, by yours truly

finn

He always got people and they never got him and it was alright like that.

He always told lies and told jokes and people laughed and he laughed and he was always laughing about something because the joke was never on him. He played drunks and played pick-up sticks, trying to see how many he could grasp between his thumb and forefinger before they clattered back onto a table next to an empty whisky cup of someone beside him. And he thought of sin and he thought himself almost pure in the sense that he was immortal and invulnerable and nothing could touch him. No, nothing could cut him and cut his strings that held him above the pit of hell until they did. So he'd retreat back to the ground, pulling his head from the clouds until the sun came out.

Dangerously, he lifted himself to his feet and lifted his ego a little higher, because he didn't die then and he never would.

And next week, who knows what he'll do.

He'll sleep with no one, someone, one eye open.

Maybe he'll make a noose of twine.

Maybe he'll have pick up lines, drink aged wine, or get killed sometime.

nyx

His craving was never narrowed to money, sex, or knowledge.

It was only power he wanted, yearned for, and needed. And when his teeth weren't buried in the shoulder of his prey, he'd press his fingers against their throat, clasp a hand around their wrist, or listen softly at their chest for the beat of blood pounding against the walls of their veins. Sometimes he'd make them cry out of pain, worry, or something else entirely and it was okay because he alone had caused that. So when he let them go and called them good, it was because he allowed it.

Playing God was an adopted title, but it was a title nonetheless.

Because the ability to violate and condescend was a natural trait he knew he had been blessed with. His fingers were always roaming for his new talisman, for anything he held had power. His tongue hissed the language of snakes into ears, threats and curses based on his supreme right to pin someone down and control the pulse that quivered under his fingertips. He could quicken it, slow it, and stop it and he used his rights generously.

And only when he thought he lost everything, did he realize he never had anything in the first place.

sol

up in the attic, he searched for the stencils of his wings. in the bright light, he squinted, holding up a hand to cover his eye, cheek, and shoulder from the burning rays. and in the attic, he'd look for the outlines of his wings. but in the cabinets of stencils, they were all too long, round, wide, and plain to be his. and he never really fit into any even though he ripped them apart with all the power in his hands and formed his own. but they hurt and the edges cut into his skin when he held them up to his wings.

in a mirror in the room, he didn't quite fit. his eye, cheek, and shoulder were always cut by the frame like a line slitting him in half. and he turned away in disappointment to look out the window instead, where his reflection shined back at him with distorted shapes. the sky was too bright, too bleary, and it was sealed. all the power in his hands, and he could not unlock the widow.

but then he found the stairs.

and he traveled down, down, down to the basement where he searched the cabinets and found his stencil. the window was shaded by a large throw of lace and he went to stand in front of the mirror.

although his face was not marred by the frame, one of his eyes was dark, forever shrouded in the shadow of the attic.

wren

little bird, little bird, fly away far. go across the seas to wish upon a star.

maybe you can evade the arrow for your heart. hunting season is about to start.

if you stay now, you might get caught. the land has developed an evil rot.

don't listen them, for they tell lies. their words are filled with death and flies.

the fruit has fallen from the trees. they're feeding your freedom to the honey bees.

little bird, little bird, fly away from here. pretend you have wings before the wasps draws near.

caspian

Wings, he knew, were a gift from his angel blood. The purest of them all were blessed with them and their blood remained saturated with that of the creatures of heaven. To have wings was a sign that he was one step closer to not being dragged down by the demons that grasped at his ankles everyday, their claws digging into his skin as they raced after him. But little by little, they took everything, and soon, his wings were gone too. Because maybe hell just liked him that much. And maybe he never belonged with the angels and the heavens because hell always had a list of names and maybe his name was always on it from the beginning. The angels had wait-listed him and no one ever fell out of line.

Little by little, the demons latched onto his back, digging their claws on his shoulder blades and through the bone to reach his heart.

There, they secured their talons and he harboured his inner fire with kindling that never seemed to run out. No, the angels could not recognize him now and they had turned a blind eye to him, ignoring his existence as if he was never on their mind. And hell opened up beneath him and he didn't mind because how could it make any difference.

If there had been any angel blood in him, it had been burned out of his body.

It had rotted a long time ago when the demons on his back slaughtered it in their evil might.

And, as time went on, he found it difficult to believe that any part of him was worthy of the heavens, the angels, the absolute goodness of the world. So, with open arms, he embraced his demons gladly and scorned what the heavens had denied him.

ethos

There were strange thoughts he had, sometimes, where he dreamt of things he was not. Like royalty. Naturally, he was far from something of that nature, but it never hurt to dream like that.

Sometimes, in the Land Under the Faerie, he'd sit, reclined, against a hill, his eyes trained on the stream where it bubbled and lapped at the bank. It curved through the land, carving it's way through like a delicate scar, the stream too clear and sweet to be that of the mundane world. He found his eyes traveling to the side where a tree hung and he reached out to grasp one of the plums that hung from it. A sweet smell of imprisonment hung on the leaves and he was willingly a Persephone in Hades' lair. After all, he was already bound to the Court.

A while off, a large group of faeries were laughing, bantering about where they played with their instruments, the tune being carried across the hills like a sickness. But they all were accustomed to the flu and they inhaled the air with smiles, talking, dancing, kissing, sleeping, and choking on their inability to break away.

He liked to dream that he could do those things with them, but he was not so immune to the sickness as they were and he was afraid to get caught the spokes of a wheel that never stopped spinning.

When he looked back at the stream, it had changed directions, filling a lake with a quiet flow. After a while, he learned to not question such things and, instead, he started on his plum.

dante

He was rather powerful with a blessed sense of self, crossing the rings of the inferno he was imprisoned in.

It was almost humourous how quickly he had gone from the top tier to the bottom one, forced to mingle and be a part of commoners. He knew he did not deserve such irony and others merely laughed at his name. He was a forgotten prince, a small prince, an ignored prince against the enormity of the world.

What a divine comedy it was.