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❝Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we'll never get used to it.❞
― RICHARD SIKEN, Scheherazade
✧･ﾟ: * ═══════════════ *:･ﾟ✧
𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘, 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌𝐒, can only ever be understood by the half-alive. Perhaps it is the cruelty of fate that deems it so; the few who are granted the ability to see will fall victim to the fangs of fate before they have a chance to comprehend the slightest of miracles. Even death's doorstep, a place alight with the secrets and wisdom of the living, deems that those sprawled upon its iron shadow are too far gone to grasp such tantalizing brilliance or pass on its lore - and so existence itself remains a mystery. Truth, however, is far more unpredictable and far more dangerous, as all have the power to uncover its brutality. Veracity does not care who it hurts, it will never go back to erase its mistakes and untimely exposures as it rages through the universe on currents of sadistic agony.
When the at last truth reveals the scars which lie beneath its glittering mask, even the beginning is not always as simple as it seems. Lies are easier, so much easier, for they do not break the very notion of stability to pieces with no possibility of repair. Yet the glacial crust of deception, untouched ivory sheets brushed with blue and dusted with sands of diamond from joy's crumbled chandeliers, cannot remain blindingly pristine for long. Pockets of flame lie within the souls of those who remember the past, burning beneath the surface of time, melting through perfection with magma's hellish touch to reveal the charcoal scars beneath. Perhaps if memories didn't exist there would be no pain, only bliss and an endless cycle of unrelenting ignorance, no one truly knowing when finality would come. All could be bathed in the happiness of dainty falsehoods, far beyond the treacherous cage of trying so hard to prevent a disaster that you become one. But this cursed utopia does not exist; in its place, annihilation reigns.
And Eryn is nothing less than a catastrophe, one of millions of children born into destruction and shaped by ruins. She is doomed to rise while all else falls, wrapped in echoing reminiscence and alight with the woes of what once was. Yet she has not always been soaked with such endless torment, for long before destiny rotted to cinders there had been beautiful, golden days. Sunlight through palace windows, the gentle fingers of a soft breeze running through her hair, basking in what everyone called 'newfound serenity', though the girl herself had never known what came before. There could have been two people in the galaxy and Eryn would have remained happy, for who needs an entire universe when the bond of mother and daughter is bright and silver and unbreakable? She remembered all those afternoons when the two of them would dress in their finest silks and jewelry, pretending to dash out to secretive senatorial meetings before slipping into the gardens. Satine and Eryn Kryze would spend hours laughing in the grass and searching for glitches in the artificial, azure sky - while most of the domed metropolis' crowned underside was packed with cement development, above the palace simulated paradise ruled in grace.
