[rapturia] Weiss
your orange blossoms tightening around my neck
Rapturia
When Weiss found Rapture, the tips of her sharp cheekbones floated just above the steaming waters within the porcelain tub. Orange blossoms brushed pass the slope of her pale nose and whispered against her autumn locks, which fanned around her head like a halo. He approached the bath, the water murky from milk and bath salts, and cleared his throat.
“Do you usually talk to women during their baths?” she murmured, a smile traveling across her full lips.
He blushed to the tips of his ears.
She was already dying then, and he was only eighteen.
The sickness ate her slowly, raw. At midnight, she would rise from her bed to gargle mint water and spit blood. The doctors attempted both Eastern and Western remedies with little avail. Gradually, fat slipped from her body and her bones began to talk. Her skin grew fainter and fainter, but luckily, paleness had been the fashion back then. Ironically, the other high society ladies of Albion almost grew to envy her fragile frailness.
“It’s funny-the fashion now,” she sighed from the bathwaters. “We must all want to die or something.”
“Don’t say that,” Weiss blurted out. Even at that age, war bleached his hair.
“I’m done with the bath,” she moved on, dismissing his mortification. “Turn away, would you? I don’t want you to see me like this.”
-but even, skin and bones, he loved her like only first love could. He loved her, despite his position behind the line and her status in the opposing court. He loved her, and the hatred between their nationalities only fueled his determination even more. He loved her, despite the cancerous skeleton which could not wait to rip from her trembling shell.
“You can look now,” she whispered, gathering the towels around her thin, emaciated body. When the boy turned, she spat some more blood and laughed mirthlessly. “Must be punishment for my words.”
He would understand later. But now, eighteen and tired of war, he could only ask, “Do you feel better?” with an obvious set of ulterior motives.
She smiled, showing teeth. “Yes. Much better.”
In the darkness, she always smelled familiar and Weiss could not close his eyes. It was then when he wanted to lie; he loved her so much, so much. He gripped her sharp shoulders as she, staring at the waxing moon, leaned against his broad chest.
“You can sleep,” she whispered, as if fearing guilt. “I just want to watch the moon a little longer.”
The boy buried his nose into those vibrant autumn locks. Decades later, when her face had disappeared from his memory and only brief bouts of nostalgic love lingered, he would only recall her dazzling ginger hair. The eighteen year old boy shook his head slightly. “No, it’s okay. I want to. Just like you want to watch the moon.”
She sighed. “I just want to remember it.”
His grip tightened. When she fell asleep, his fingers brushed against her full lashes and he would attempt to close his eyes. But he never could fall asleep without fits-not with her, anyway. The orange blossoms were not strong enough-his love must not have been strong enough. Whispering love like a mantra, he attempted to soothe his blood as panic mounted faster and faster. She smelled clean, like oranges-like death. She smelled like impending death. She smelled like the cockpit before launch and the suddenly stillness of over. She smelled like his trembling fingers under the trigger and the crumbling tombstones in the garden. The boy squeezed his eyes shut and quaked.
Rapturia
When Weiss found Rapture, the tips of her sharp cheekbones floated just above the steaming waters within the porcelain tub. Orange blossoms brushed pass the slope of her pale nose and whispered against her autumn locks, which fanned around her head like a halo. He approached the bath, the water murky from milk and bath salts, and cleared his throat.
“Do you usually talk to women during their baths?” she murmured, a smile traveling across her full lips.
He blushed to the tips of his ears.
She was already dying then, and he was only eighteen.
The sickness ate her slowly, raw. At midnight, she would rise from her bed to gargle mint water and spit blood. The doctors attempted both Eastern and Western remedies with little avail. Gradually, fat slipped from her body and her bones began to talk. Her skin grew fainter and fainter, but luckily, paleness had been the fashion back then. Ironically, the other high society ladies of Albion almost grew to envy her fragile frailness.
“It’s funny-the fashion now,” she sighed from the bathwaters. “We must all want to die or something.”
“Don’t say that,” Weiss blurted out. Even at that age, war bleached his hair.
“I’m done with the bath,” she moved on, dismissing his mortification. “Turn away, would you? I don’t want you to see me like this.”
-but even, skin and bones, he loved her like only first love could. He loved her, despite his position behind the line and her status in the opposing court. He loved her, and the hatred between their nationalities only fueled his determination even more. He loved her, despite the cancerous skeleton which could not wait to rip from her trembling shell.
“You can look now,” she whispered, gathering the towels around her thin, emaciated body. When the boy turned, she spat some more blood and laughed mirthlessly. “Must be punishment for my words.”
He would understand later. But now, eighteen and tired of war, he could only ask, “Do you feel better?” with an obvious set of ulterior motives.
She smiled, showing teeth. “Yes. Much better.”
In the darkness, she always smelled familiar and Weiss could not close his eyes. It was then when he wanted to lie; he loved her so much, so much. He gripped her sharp shoulders as she, staring at the waxing moon, leaned against his broad chest.
“You can sleep,” she whispered, as if fearing guilt. “I just want to watch the moon a little longer.”
The boy buried his nose into those vibrant autumn locks. Decades later, when her face had disappeared from his memory and only brief bouts of nostalgic love lingered, he would only recall her dazzling ginger hair. The eighteen year old boy shook his head slightly. “No, it’s okay. I want to. Just like you want to watch the moon.”
She sighed. “I just want to remember it.”
His grip tightened. When she fell asleep, his fingers brushed against her full lashes and he would attempt to close his eyes. But he never could fall asleep without fits-not with her, anyway. The orange blossoms were not strong enough-his love must not have been strong enough. Whispering love like a mantra, he attempted to soothe his blood as panic mounted faster and faster. She smelled clean, like oranges-like death. She smelled like impending death. She smelled like the cockpit before launch and the suddenly stillness of over. She smelled like his trembling fingers under the trigger and the crumbling tombstones in the garden. The boy squeezed his eyes shut and quaked.