this day should be for me

[promittere]

WAXING GIBBOUS FINALE

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( What hangs over Mika, at all times, is death. It is a jealous spectre, displeased that it has been stood up; it has pressed its accusatory, skeletal finger at his chest, through his heart, like a pin, and stills it, and it says: Fine. You will not have me. You will not have me, and so you will see so clearly how I covet your loves, and you will see them leave with me. And I will ignore your lamentation, just as you have ignored my invitation. Very well; very well.

Mika is not deathless now. The near-perfect cleave at his neck proves this to him every day, and still it aches come the mornings (mornings he does not deserve). And yet - death, even now, shrugs at him. Death, even now, runs its cool hands along these people he cares for, and it asks him - Are you watching? Do you see this? And Mika can see so well. He can see in shades and hear in vibrations he had not known before, as a human. And in every new sensation he sees signs of death.

He wishes they would understand. He wishes that in human tongue there existed the words to express why he is always so afraid.

He locks his hand into Ginger's, fingers intertwined. He presses their hands soft against Ginger's chest. He exhales (in habit; one that he indulges in more often, now), and he feels Ginger's pulse in his hand, and he shares it - lets it be his own. They're both afraid; he can feel it like a buzz within the coursing of their blood. But stronger is the thrum of their hearts, together. Their heart, as one.

Fate did not ask they be together. Fate wove in the fixed truths of failure into his tapestry, and invited death in. And if he leaves them to fate, maybe - Ginger would die, too. Everyone here, might.

So this is a choice. It is his choice to stand here with Ginger, and it is his choice to hope to live, and sow seeds that might grow. And he hopes that, if this is transgressive, that it will be forgiven.

In the air drifts the soft scent of roses; the kind they grow together in their garden, a little different than any other kind. )

... Donec moraire.

( 'til my dying breath.

Mika casts his spell.

Thousands of massive, thorned vines of roses wind across the outer walls of the manor, blooming in brilliant, ruby hues. They thread themselves around the outsides and insides of the room the flickering body of the sage kneels arrested in, along the inner and outer walls of the adjacent rooms, and along the inner and outer walls of the hallway leading to the room.

The window and doorway into the room are the barricade's Achilles heel: there is a sliver of an opening, like the thin slats of a blind, that allows others - ideally allied wizards - to see in and see the interior of the room - the sage and the wizards presently in it. To get in without the thorns clawing one to shreds would be an unpleasant task. They will recede reflexively for the magical signatures of allied wizards to get in and out; unfamiliar presences will need to contend with the horrible gap.

And so, from the shadow of death blooms a gentle prayer for life. )

... I think it should hold as long as I remain steady. Thanks.

( He hopes. He squeezes Ginger's hand, slowly relaxing - not by much, mind, given the unfolding situation outside; he's still tense.

And it is in this brief reprieve he notices something he'd been too anxious to recognize before. )