the seven husbands of y/n l/n ✷ gi

in which he must cut loose ends

SEVERAL WEEKS AGO...

THE FACE OF THE FLESH LEADS SOLEY TO SUBUMBING AND WRETCHED ABYSMALLY: THAT IS A MERE ACT LAID BY THE HEAVENS. 

'Consternation and desire will seep into the skin,' he recalled, reciting the verse like a solemn prayer woven beneath the crevices of his hollow chest like an arbour. Capitano's eyes then brush through the twinkling of fallen snow, 'thus, provision for the carnal shall turn soldiers-'

"... Into mindless beasts." 

Capitano heaves a sigh, crouching to further examine the vast barren horizon of snow and the occasional rock formation. The boundless image of snow and ice seemed to paste itself from one corner to another: like the universe opting to minimize their work. 

The crunch of snow and placid breathing were the only notable sounds. All else slumbered under the forbidding repulse of eternal winters. At least, Y/N would phrase it that way. Her impervious tone dripped with poetical tactical and an inkling of inner knowing. As if fate was an entity or art that she could master absent of further prodding or probing. 

That, never quite registered in Capitano's prodigious mind. To firmly convict that the stars were woven into your bloodstream, that your beating heart poured with the sweetest of wine; bringing old lovers back to life from their bedridden grave. Perhaps it was that 'fate' glimmered above your head like an encore of angels humming tunes so jovial that it would appease the gods of spring. In summary, it was the notion that fate toiled with you instead of against you. 

It was pure lunacy and most notably, a battle plan domed to be the laughingstock of the throng. 

Capitano has resided in Cheklain long enough to comprehend a vast number of truths. However, one truth poised itself absent of much foreshadowing or abhorrence. It was merely there, plain and lacking of tricky or illustrious allegories that failed to serve their original purpose. 

The visage of death, Capitano recalled, was not the enemy of the flesh nor was it the prey you would foolishly point your weapon at. It was quite the opposite. It was a distant friend roving through your home; pausing for a curt cup of tea before it departs just as seamlessly as it arrived. Then, Capitano realized, you would be gone. Now nesting like a bird having taken their final flight, a single feather acting as their only letter to the dancing snow plains of the living. 

"If only you would understand," muttered Capitano to the ghost of a living friend, nevertheless, it fell on deaf ears and a crudely obstinate soul. 

Y/N's soul.

━━━

"THERE IT IS." 

Mutterd Capitano under his breath, a subtle spark of satisfaction reaching his face.

Reaching down, Capitano gingerly brushes the mounds of snow aside. Thus, a distinct midnight black scarf emerges from the rubble like a gemstone. Eyes scanning over the scarf, Capitano halts as he discerns the quaint yet seemingly strange cursive stitching. 'L/N', it wrote in the most exuberant shade of deep emerald green. Nevertheless, the scarf itself was an out-of-place object: an entity that possessed greater formosity than set to be. 

Capitano gingerly folds the scarf with tactful poise, each corner lining up with another. Absent of struggle. 

'Now she has her scarf back.' remarked Capitano, who could not suppress the subtle inkling of pleasure and kindred smile.