oiling old bones

I've not written poetry regularly for the last like seven years lmao let's see if we can't use napo to knock off some rust

A lot of this is going to be fandom driven (I'm suffering from/embracing severe dragon age brainrot) so be forewarned ✌️

01. Pre-DAO, Karl/Anders

time is like a flat circle
you tell me in our storeroom cupboard,
dust motes heavy in the air and your hands
heavy at the hem of my robes.

I don't want to think about the circle -
days melted into months of fear,
seasons changing only through
the shift of stars above us.

Time only matters when it’s now
here with fingers intertwined,
your breath warm and steady
at my neck.

You keep talking about theory,
about relativity,
about chaos and entropy and force and mass and

so I’ll silence you the best way I know how,
with my mouth on yours.

Hi tinny! I like how you contrasted the "flat circle" and "stars above us" with "fingers intertwined" and "warm and steady" -- celestial images with physical/grounded images. I like how you built up the momentum towards that last line as well. Great poeting, and good luck with the rest of your NaPo!

02. More pre-origins Anders

It would have been kinder
to drown us as infants,

but they stopped me
that one time I tried
sinking myself in the lake,
pockets full of slipped tiles
broken stone and the hope
that there are things
worse than death. But they

pulled me up, wet
by the scruff of my collar
shook the water out of me, said
with great annoyance that
it would have been a fine waste
of a good set of robes.

03. This one is mostly based on the game I haven't played yet so idk haha


When you asked for my hand
I thought you meant in the eyes of the Maker.

Dressed in eggshell, chiffon,
an exchange of vows witnessed
only by the blessing of the Divine.

Lifting the shift of veil that separates us
to join lips, hands, fingers, skin--

I thought that you would become the anchor
holding me firm and fast in the firmament
when you asked for my hand,
I did not think you meant this

04. tranquility era Karl/Anders, because I apparently hate myself


A hastily written note found beneath your bedsheets
reminiscing on the romance between two teenage boys,
evidence of treason against your place in creation.

Did you think of me on your way to the guillotine?
Dead man walking through the gallows to face the fire
with only time to carry one final feeling in his heart.

Every night I wonder what memory it was you held
tight for comfort before it was swallowed away,
before the sun severed your spirit whole.

Warm blood leaves a stain on the spirit that no
healer can remove, but in truth it feels a blessing
I could bring you the mercy the Maker refused.

05. Some fenhawke nonsense


Have you ever cried out in comfort?
Felt a gentle touch so tender,
so full of care and ease
it made you want to pull
the very meat from your bones
so that it might never happen again?

It is easier to be all hard edges–
sharp steel and sharper tongue.
This pain is familiar, seen red
spilled on white sands along
a coast as wounded as the heart
begging to be ripped from its cage.

For is the hand that bites any different
from the one which offers blessing
when against bruised skin both
feel the same?

06. more circle-era karl/anders


In the presence of evening light we dreamed
of impossible things--

of fingers interlaced through a marketplace,
at a stall naming the scent of each
spice that had existed before
only on parchment.

Watching the roll of the ocean,
waves moved by their own
primal magic. The smell of the sea
caught in your hair, the taste of it
salt and brine where tongue
meets skin.

And your laugh- that rare thing a
treasure, golden bright in dim taverns
where we sit drinking, hand resting
on thigh in the cover of darkness
with faces flush, merry.

The warmth of the fire like the warmth
of your smile, the warmth of the palm
pressed into the small of my spine
as it curves to meet you.

07. happy one week of napo! The last bit of Karl/Anders that has been worming in my brain.

Spoiling this because if you're under 16 I don't think it's for you

Spoiler

Light filters through glass,
a fracture of colour

that catches the sheen
of sweat on your face,
the furrowed lines at
your brow. Your hands move
as though in prayer,
draw a spell, stir some
new magic on the contours
of my skin. And for a moment,

brief,

this circle of stone
is exactly where
I want to be.

08. Karl/Anders sadness is over, it's Fenris/Hawke sadness time now baybeeeee. For context, aggregio is a type of wine in-game.


Aggregio.
It was the last bottle in the cellar,
saved for a special occasion
and all I could think was to share.
You place your lips to the mouth of
glass and then I'll place mine, the
ghost a touch that’s the closest
I’ll get to ever knowing how it feels
to kiss you.

We'll drink down the memories
together, dry and bitter and rich and
going straight to my head until the
bottle is empty but your face full colour.
Your smile, your laugh, warm and welcoming,
an invitation that haunts me
long into the night
once you’re gone.

09.

There's a chant burning bright
in the rafters.

A slip of parchment taken flight
still searing at the edges
with embers threatening to ignite
all you hold dear.

This whole time it was there,
immolation sleeping in your fingertips
waiting only for the moment
it could strike down the holy in prayer.

The Maker’s words turned
to nothing more than kindling,
fuel for the furnace that burns
hot and hurt at the empty space
between your ribs.

10. This needs a lot of work but I'm tired and it's nearly tomorrow.

The rose behind the bakery
was the first bright thing
that hadn't spilled from a body
turned inside out.

The one beautiful thing
amidst this carnage and despair,
a touch of velvet not yet spoiled
by sword or spell or sickness.

It was gone, the morning we fled
smoke chasing at our heels.
The bakery, the town behind
soon gone in turn themselves.

11.

Behind the veil, smoke;
heady incense that stings
the back of the throat with myrrh.
Sit, hands pressed together in prayer
fingers interlocked beneath an
unwavering gaze in gold and red.
A steady whisper,

Here's the chantry,
Here's the steeple,
Look inside-

but there is no space for a mage
in the house of the maker.
Not 'til the candles all run to wax
and the censers send sin
burning in black into the sun.

And there is no glory so golden
as to shine bright through
the soot of an apostate's sin.

12. Realise that giving context for this one might take too long. Aftermath of Fenris proposing Hakwke dual to the Arishok. Ie, narrator gets in a fight with a warrior many times their size, fight is arranged by a close companion/love interest.



The axe came swinging and
I never felt the impact.

Days later when I wake
sore, aching, but victorious
you'll point the scar out to me-
a long bite that reaches
from hip past navel,
crescent moon smiling
wide and red across my skin.
Us both wondering
how close we had been
there and then
to not being at all.

The pain follows later;
once the soothing magic
of the healer's hands ebbs
and runs its course.
A body, broken, catching up
for lost time, recalling where
torn nerves were once whole
and what it was to feel
beyond searing white,
skin yet remember how
to be touched.

The hurt fixed in your eyes
will be less easy to mend.
I see it each time a breath
is caught by tendons still tender,
whenever laugher thorns
and I beg for a cool cloth
to offer ease, pray that
you do not notice the tears
that spill down burning cheeks.

I offered you to him
the guilt keeps you pinned
to the edge of the bed,
a sentinel through the nights
you imagine I am lost in sleep.

like a lamb to the slaughter
but I know of no lamb
that could claim
the head of one wolf
and the heart of another.

13.

That morning I must wake still sleeping,
for how else could I find you here
when you've been absent every other?

It’s a pleasant dream, if a cruel barb
to find you resting in crook my shoulder,
hair a silver halo spilled upon satin sheets.

The palm on my hip is hot and heavy,
greater comfort still the warm breath
that catches the small space beneath my ear.

Even in dream there are lines, boundaries,
so it's only gaze that traces your form
until your eyes find mine, hold them, smile.

You speak, it stirs the bones within my chest
And they hum and sing in sweet respose.
Perhaps not dreaming after all.