A Cracked Frame

[ShiroKirishiki]

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Shadows cast by candlelight stir.

Whispers adorn the air where silence once deafened,

the world within and without began to blur.

-

A black fox, accursed and maddened,

mutters prayers and etches her truth onto page

so that it might endure.

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They bled correctly, but for the wrong purpose.
It nearly breaks my heart to see them come so close, only to miss the truth entirely.
I can feel it; Meranthe has the potential to be great.
They are like uncut marble, but they fear the chisel.
They think rigidity begets righteousness.

-

The girl, Sophie was her name, said something so wise for a girl her age:

‘The only truth in the world is change.’

-

For one living within Meranthe’s blinded masses, there is a glimmer of something there.
A potential for true meaning.

-

Death. Life.

Light. Dark.

Everything in between.

-

There are many constants, but there is only one truth:
Beauty.

-

It transcends it all, admired and considered ‘right’ no matter what it does.
Even those that cry out against it cannot help but give pause if they only look at it for what it is.

-

Yet, I am painted the villain for making them beautiful.

They cannot see past the blood when I cut away the rot.

That ignorance, that blindness, will be the death of them.

Even the light of dawn stings the eye if looked at directly.

Why can’t they understand? Surely they do.

-

They who stand against titans and monsters, who bleed so wonderfully for their perceived truths, surely understand that pain comes before perfection.

-

…right?

-

Perhaps one, at least, would understand.
The girl that stood against Aisenliche, who attacked me, despite the fact she knew it was futile.
Even if she is misguided, even if she is so close to understanding yet deaf to the faintest whispers…There is potential.

-

So I gave Alma a mark that whispers.
It will follow her like her own shadow.

-

I pray it opens her eyes.

I pray it opens her ears.

I pray it lets Her see.

-

The ground was stained in their truth.
I bled with them that night.
It mixed and painted the canvas perfectly.
Three flowers borne of their dances.
Each sung the same song, but in different tunes.
When they were all laid out before me, dancing in firelight, I could help but to stop and admire it.

-

The symphony of agony they created was

Divine.