i have a very specific fondness for tattered orange drapery and idiots in love
He will always remember the City of Chains in its darker moments, as though it had been spun like spider-craft of summonings and shadows.
He will always remember—a promise he has made of its torn trousers; its moth-eaten scarves; its blood spatters that would never be clean, marked like signs or sigils, pledges or warnings, the words upon a page, the markings upon skin. And the murders, the rusting shivs, the holes in a high mansion ceiling, the cracks in the glass, the mountains of skulls underneath the city streets, the foundations of handsome walls no more solid than the bones of the nameless, shivering to dust at a traveler’s footfall, and the color of a night sky when, just below it, towers burned.
The very poetic sorrows of a city. The way it destroyed itself in order to preserve itself.
A scar is a memory. And one cannot spell scary without it.
Ah. Reading. But one of so many similar gifts that reclaim certainty and simplicity. That take perhaps a little more than they share.
But of memory, Fenris has newfound understanding. Its crevices and cubby-holes and all its hidden tunnels and secret doors. A memory is a crack in the glass, the dust of bones, the curl of smoke between orange fire and purple sky. A pledge and a warning. A stain of ink upon the page; a bruise upon skin. A rusting shiv.
The sunlight between the stone walls. The laughter freeing itself from a tired beard. The flowers that grow from graves. The bright blue in-between unimportant and unnoticed clouds. The hand upon the small of the back. The flesh, not the leather. The turn of one profile against another. The breath.
The City of Chains was also the city of scarves. Bright banners unfurling. Red cloth knotted around a wrist.
He will always remember. Nostalgia, perhaps. Truth in the absence of it. Where love blossomed with the beauty and tenacity of an ugly weed.