a heart of pansies

napo week 2025
the ink and sound of all things dead

the characters...
the designs are subject to change until i am satisfied.

Spoiler

i. adiuva me
ii. thirty passings
iii. repentance
iv. idle hands grant sinful thoughts
v. prayers for the queen
vi. the burial
vii. the griever
viii. reflections
ix. silent benevolence
x. snowdrops and hellebores
xi. her eyes
xii. all is fated to fade
xiii. an appeal
xix. duty bound
xv. the claws of illness
xvi. what have i done?
xvii. just one glance...
xviii. it must be thus
xix. i am losing hold
xx. shelter elvy
xxi. grace of a flower petal
xxii. the swear
xxiii. i am not worthy
xxiv. rumors
xxv. it is not mine to mind
xxvi. long live the queen
xxvii. confused intentions
xxviii. fingers of sin
xxvix. father guide me
xxx. we will bleed together
the end noster finis

tongues of gilded sun
slip heav’ly upon cruciform—
the light which spills along lustrous stone
and suspends flecks of shift’ng dust
like bulbs of flickering daytime flies,
it curled its fingers ‘round upturned faces,
warming pink cheeks and shining jewels
adorned across aureate breast—
ornate silks; fur and feather,
arranged thus to pleasant taste
whose virtues lie in meek accord
with holy laws of good and evil,
tarnished by clouds of cool ash.
before the altar, ad orientem
my knee was meekly bowed and
my humble head low stooped,
though crowned with mitre
hewn with branching Lesif leaves
my temple bare
was laid with umber coils
lines of age pathed
where perspiration ran
i did not seek to brush away
the liquid which trickl’d down,
damp and clinging to my speckled skin.
duty-bound, my lips cried fervent prayers,
confessions low, submissa voce,
erewhile the recitations were lifted
ancient hymns, Wrefeal—miserere,
for our spirit-flame and soul.
beside me, a masked cleric kneeled,
with hope to clasp the very essence
which carved his veins of fire,
throbbing ache of ash, yet
yearning for the blessings raised
unto his lips—the overflowing favor of Him.
trembling then, four fingers were pressed
first, to my heart—and at once my eyes,
then my mouth, with a turn i whispered
benedicat nos in saecula
the words wilting upon my tongue,
as my gaze steadily fell
like rain to the petals of an iris,
upon a face veiled by starling mist,
with sable curls tumbl’ng down rounded jaw,
she whose hands were clasped,
long lashes touching ruddy cheek
in a silent prayer of her own.
caressing my feverish brow
i stumbled to my feet,
Wrefeal—adiuva me.

thirty passings of the silver sun
tarnished luster—decrepit decay
coalesce as one, nights lie everlasting.
bleeding hearts tucked between
the flying buttresses of old,
have spread their dewy petals
along a stalk of clotted blood.
meantime a heart of ardent fervor
pummeled beneath my ashy fingertips,
pressing fingernail to calloused skin—
thus are marks i bear
from ceaseless nights
of clawing at the cage
which seals my spirit-flame.
oh, Wrefeal—habet pacem!
clustering nettles
raise their stinging arms out-stretched
within my fleshy cage they fester
searing deeper than any seraphic fire
though i would blithely trace
their toothed leaves along my naked skin
raw and marred from penance
if only to withdraw
this fateful passion—
dimitte mihi!

my reflections often stray
though forbidden the thoughts arise,
of what a man like me could have,
yet duty-bound—a mortal i remain,
one to bow beside the altar
than to stand before it
to be united as one
with the woman whom i——.
oh—Father.
parce mihi a dolore—

what beauty lies beneath the veil
of she who waits beside her father,
he who rules our land with iron,
metal hewn with gore and tears,
and crowned by a clergy’s
hands that trembled,
to be in his presence.
descendant of such a man,
her lips of scarlet hue
soundless do they whisper
the prayers for her soul,
for her words could not be
in occasion to misdeed—
such a fair creature,
young and blithe,
could offend the spirits of our world,
yet the thought of her
plagues what was
intended for my solemn vow.

Wrefeal—
Wrefeal—
pacem habe animae meae.

forgive my sins,
these wicked thoughts—
the obscured face that
plagues these ceaseless
moments of mine.

i come before your altar
frame bony—wasted thin
shrouded in ash—thick clouds
of repentance.

my knees ache from
pressing to the bitter tile,
if my shame was a weight
i could not further fall—
cur tam vehementer dolet?

unrighteous reflections
are cast aside like rags,
my mind is pure—
to what i believe,
for all Your servants bid
i have done,
for Your forgiveness—

so why, Wrefeal, am i not heartened?



forgive me…

spring succumbs to summer,
then summer to a silent fall—
aufer hunc dolorem a me—
decay creeps into the world
like edged fingers—curl’ng.

the reek of burning flesh
a thick, pungent cloud
fills the acrid air
of the cathedral,
as sacrificial crows
are led up to altar—
faultless things
pure—unblemished
brought to be offered,
a repentance for our sins,
as Asilwyth,
cleansing for our spirit-flame,
wicked as we are,
the taint of rot flourishes
as wintertide approaches.

there is much to be done,
and i am duty-bound.

the acolytes beseech my rest,
they do not pretend to be ignorant
of the waver in my step—yet
i cannot—i dare not…
idle hands grant sinful thoughts,
idle hands grant sinful thoughts.

my hands tremble from fatigue,
i fumble with the
strings of my garb,
and hunger gnaws at my gut—
yet the Teachers claim
that fasting purifies the soul,
is that not what they say?
…pacem habe animae meae.

there is much to be done.

before the Ascendancy,
unpleasant tidings are delivered,
from the lips of
traveling couriers;
the queen has fallen ill,
gravely so—without warning.
i clasp my bony hands,
and lower my head—
Wrefeal—
animam reginae serva.

ad orientem i bow,
beside the altar,
and humbly plead forgiveness.

morning prayers conclude,
benedicat nos in saecula…

I do not see her in the nave.

the queen is at death's door,
her spirit-flame wanes—
what is left
of her soul
longs to shed what
tattered mantles
it still clings to.

i have been summoned,
called to the Cinder Seyn,
citadel of the Ash Divine—
there i shall pray,
plead Wrefeal to guide
our dear queen
to Ascendancy.
animam reginae serva.

mounting mare with speckled back,
the acolytes bid me farewell,
with solemn prayers
for safe travel,
and good wishes for a duty done.
at a whispered command,
the anxious steed goes forth.
the cathedral of Wrefeal
disappears behind, and
my flame sewn garb swells
as steady hooves tread heavily,
riding swiftly over rooted road.
bearing heavy torch in hand,
i stretch my arm out wide,
to dispel the famished dark
from pressing all around me.
the mountainous trees
extend their branches low,
groping for my flesh,
yet every mile i further fly,
their grasp is left empty.
by the call of watchful guard,
the gates of Cinder Seyn
are opened at my approach,
the iron jaws agape,
allow me to pass through.

the castle chaplain hurries me along
through twisting stonehall,
imploring a swift completion
of the final rites.
to this i agree, wiping at my
dampened brow,
and willing strength
to my trembling legs,
that barely kept my frame
from the tiled floor.
Wrefeal—Wrefeal—Wrefeal—

with stumbling step, we enter
the dreary chamber,
curtains drawn and torches low,
death advances firmly—
as sorrow clings to the weepy faces
who gather ‘round the succumbing queen.

at once i go forth—
but falter in my stride
for sitting on a chair
at the queen’s bedside,
rests the grieving maiden,
veil damp with dewy tears,
her sable curls matted
to her reddened cheek,
frame animated by grief
which struck a chord of affection
in the depths of
my aching bosom.

a loose sob strangles my throat,
as i smother the sound from human ears,
shuddering with a passion,
unknown to any mortal.
parce mihi a dolore…
my hands waver—then clasp,
and to my knees i bow,
Father, animam reginae serva!
and that is all i cry.

delicate flurries of
ash-peppered snow
drift upon the effigies
of the Cathedral,
blanketing the tombs of
the long resting dead.
a chill of rot creeps
across the withered grass,
whose trampled blades
cling to frozen dew
like sparkl’ng pearls of crystal.

my bare hands are raw from
plucking wild hellebore
from the bushes between
the icy graves,
pressing the blooms close,
inhaling the faint earthy smell,
faded from the frigid air.
they provide little solace,
merely serving as distraction,
idle hands grant sinful thoughts,
for my mind is otherwhere,
numb—unfeeling,
a sensation that I happily embrace.

after several passings of our silver sun,
the queen’s spirit-flame was snuffed,
smothered by the palm of death—
when Life was cast off,
like tattered garments,
to don a shroud of decay.

grief was hung upon the walls
of the Cathedral,
black textiles draped with care
as the earthly flesh of her
was arranged for the final rest.

her coffin was brought,
to the graveyard of Wrefeal,
surrounded by praying priests
and weeping beings,
who were reminded of
their own
utter frailty—
mortalis caro,
frightened of their demise,
that awaited them.

the Ash Divine,
lord king—and she
the cause of all my suffering,
garbed in somber clothes,
waited closely to the tomb,
as their beloved queen,
or what remained,
was buried in the earth,
with the voices of many,
crying for her Ascendancy,
rose together.
my own was strained and hoarse,
from sobbing through the night,
pleading forgiveness at the fire altar.

this was only hours ago,
and i had long since wandered,
aimlessly—unaware,
among the sleeping dead—
all the weeping souls
had returned to their way of life,
some to languish,
some to carry on,
as though it were a dream,
they would rouse the next morn,
and allow the memory to melt away.

only a few remained,
and the Ash Divine had
all but disappeared,
taking along with them
the lady of my suffering—
Wrefeal—adiuva me.
grasping at my face,
i sank to my knees,
letting the dusty florets fall
in a shower along
my blackened habit.

cur—cur—cur?
da mihi vires…
please—

my wretchedness broke,
at the sound of stifled sobs,
a dulcet weeping to the ear,
arising from the untouched tomb,
that was otherwise unattended.

i unsteadily arose,
thirsting to discover
whose suffering was
akin to my own.

from betwixt the silver tombs,
i peer through bramble bush,
brushing aside snow coated
branches, and step across
the earth.

the cries i follow slowly swell,
smothered now by pressing hand,
speaking to my heavy heart,
as words of quiet sympathy.
faltering—my body trembles,
frightened of another grief,
that weighs as heavy as my own,
for who serves solace
to one who’s blind and sightless,
when they are deprived of light
themselves?

i utter a quiet prayer,
as guidance for my words,
still clasping the hellebore
between my shaking hands.
da mihi vires, Wrefeal.

shoving bramble aside,
i step into the clear,
nearly lurching forward,
as i behold the griever.
hennin loosed with trailing veil,
covering a face of
ashy red against
chalk-white skin,
and curls of sable hue.
ebony dress lies asunder,
as she kneels before quiet grave,
of the mother she once held close.

ash-streaked tears run down her cheek,
as she turns in my direction,
washing away the beads of woe,
with the tips of a gloved hand,
flushing with sudden shame.

“tis you, tis you,”
she says to me,
standing to her feet,
“the one who prayed
those months ago,
the one who stayed with me.”

“tis true,
my lady.”
i say,
in a voice low and strained,
“i prayed, then,
for your mother’s soul,
and—”

“you have my deepest thanks,
o, so noble priest,
for the honor you have paid
the queen,
during her final days.”

“the honor is mine,
and mine alone;
though,
i am deeply saddened
for her passing,
and the loss you now
carry.”

she wrings her soiled garments,
and bows her lovely head.
no response is made,
as a sudden sob bursts forth,
she falls back to her knees,
and it takes all within me,
not to crumble there.

bitterly i back away,
“pardon, my lady—
for intruding on this
moment of private sorrow
that i have trod upon—”

“stay.”
she desperately begs me,
with anguish in her voice,
and, uncertain, i obey.

i draw near with unsteady feet,
and kneel down beside her,
listening to the thrashing of my heart,
as it pounds within my ears.

i offer her a handkerchief,
to dry her dampened face,
she receives it with a feeble smile,
and i knew with that moment,
all my endless suffering
found its meaning then,
o, Wrefeal knows
i should not.

our gloomy silence,
and the sorrow of my reflections,
is broken by the sigh
she utters then,
low and lingering,
as her heartache
settles deep within her chest.

i strive to offer her,
consolation of a kind,
but the words escape me,
and all i manage to say is;
“my lady—”

she turns her charming head
towards me, tilted slightly—
and my breath is caught within my throat,
tangled by her eyes upon me.

“do we truly Ascend when we die?”
she asks, letting fall a single tear.

i fumble for an answer,
for i have asked this simple question,
through the nights
i pondered death
when agony was too much to bear.
“...that is what the Teachers say—
the Branches of the Kindling;
they affirm our spirit-flame,
and the Ascendancy
of the faithful.”
noli me te amare sinere.

she reflects on my reply,
gazing at a patch of snowdrop,
growing through the ashy frost.
she stretches her hand to pluck one,
cradling the bloom between her fingers,
cream-colored against her gloved palm.

“are we to believe what
we do not understand?
what we cannot hold within
our hands?

is this, noble priest,
what we are meant
to believe?”

“my lady, i—”

she holds a finger to my lips,
and my response dies at once,
as i am held captive
by the single motion.

“good priest,
i sense a conflict within you,
a battle for understanding,
for you are bound to
guide the faithless,
whilst your soul cries
for answers.
there is misery
behind your eyes,
an ache you try to conceal—”

utinam scires
profunditatem doloris mei.

“—i know how it feels
to question your purpose.”

a stifled sob escapes my lips,
and i bury my face into my hands,
as i attempt to express
strangled apologies.

stulte! stulte!
fool—i am such a fool—
why—cease your weeping!

my breath comes out in wheezes,
as the passions i suppressed
burst forth, and
sobs spill from my very being.

her heart is moved to pity,
at the sight of me,
and she edges closer,
extending her open arms.

the princess in her
silent benevolence,
tenderly pulls me near,
cradling my head
against her shoulder,
as my tears dampen
her black attire.
she strokes my shaggy curls,
her hand trailing
down my neck and spine,
lingering a moment,
before lifting
to stroke my head once more.
her frame trembles—
i pray she cannot hear the
fluttering of my heart,
pressed close to her own,
as i melt in her embrace.

we remain motionless,
i in her embrace,
as she soothes the
sudden shattering of my
composure,
and holds the pieces
that remain together,
with the tender stroke
of her hand.
though the air is frigid,
with wisps of falling snow,
warmth spreads along my spine,
where her fingers trail.

my thoughts are silenced,
for only a moment,
until i hear a sigh,
escape her quiet lips.

i am a fool!
if only—if only—
no—no!
i cannot bear this—
i cannot give in—

grasping at my heart,
i gently drew away,
and she let her hands
fall into her lap.

“thank you, my lady,
for your friendly solace…
now i must away,
for my duties at the Cathedral
yet await my attention.
shall i escort you
to the citadel?”

a melancholy smile
rests upon her lips,
as she shakes her lovely head,
“thank you, noble priest,
for staying by my side,
though you too carry
a burden inside.
no, my knight is
waiting beyond the
bushes, there.
attend your duties,
faithful priest—
and accept this snowdrop,
as a token of my
gratitude.”

thus she says,
taking my hands in hers,
and closing my fingers
around the creamy bloom.
i grasp it cautiously,
as though it were made of glass,
and gifted her a hellebore
that still lay upon my cope.

“for the kindness you have shown me,
in this moment of weakness,
a gift of my
gratitude.”
i say—
unable to cease the
shuddering of my frame.

she holds it to her breast,
the ebony blossom,
whose florets seem
grim close to the
ivory snowdrops.

she trails a finger across
the petals,
as she did along my neck.
my cheeks redden at the thought,
and i straighten to my feet,
trying to ignore
the pounding of my heart.

i bow low and bid her a farewell,
and hasten through the bramble,
as i tear at my calloused chest,
with a hope that the pain
would distract me from
that moment,
though i never
wanted to forget,
the feeling of her
hand upon my skin.

father help me.