a heart of pansies

i keep the snowdrop
pressed between the
pages of my sacred texts,
preserving its beauty
amidst the weight of
my pledged duty.

since our meeting
in the ash-strewn
graveyard,
the princess has returned
to the cathedral,
kneeling at the edge of
the nave—
absorbed with fervent
pleadings for her
spirit-flame.

when i begin the
morning prayers,
i lift my head to
avert my regard from
hers—
yet, at times i find myself,
casting glances in her
direction.
i wonder if she, too,
recalls that night,
for now and then,
i see her head raised,
whilst my back is turned;
and though i cannot
see her gaze through
the misty veil she wears,
somehow i sense,
her eyes
rest upon me.

as all is fated in the world,
winter fades beneath
the lustrous glow of
the silver sun,
and with it weakens
my strongest resolve
to put the moment
we shared together
aside.

forgive me father—
the blood of my
sacred oath still
stains my fingertips,
serving as a reminder
for the duty i am
sworn to pay,
but father—
if only you understood,
the aching
in my heart
and in my flesh,
to know the sweet
love of her.

we share a glance
that lingers for
a moment,
before our gazes
are drawn away,
by the task of
our prayers,
intermingling
with the drone
of the choir.
i shift close
to the nave,
just to feel her presence,
near mine,
and she kneels
behind me—
whispering the
mundane of her
life.
i am unable to reply,
but the mere
sound of her voice
is enough to
console me.


one morning after
the gathering,
and the dust-filtered
cathedral is hollow
of guests,
i discover my
handkerchief,
lying upon the tile.
rolled inside is a
small sheet of
cream-colored
parchment,
covered in an
elegant hand
the words:
i shall be in the graveyard tonight,
written upon its face.

my hand trembles
as my eyes caress the sheet,
and for a sweet moment
my heart dreams
of what i could have.

then the bitter truth
is revealed to me,
as though it were
a vision from the Father,
that even though
i dearly wished it,
she could not be mine.

i plan to meet her,
that night in the
place of our moment,
and regardless of
what she intended,
i will remain steadfast,
for all is fated to fade…


even if it means my undoing…
father, grant me strength…

as dusk blossoms
like the petals
of a columbine,
i retire from the
cathedral,
still clad in my
alb and cope,
clasping the note
the princess left for me
to my breast,
as the furled
cream-colored pages,
flutter against
my pounding heart.
perspiration gathers
at my temples—
drawn up
from the recess
of my soul.

mecum sit—
please, wrefeal
remain with me—

from hence,
i stumble to
the misty grounds,
in which our
sleeping dead
still rest,
beneath their
engraved stone.

before the grave
of the reposing queen,
true to her word,
the lovely princess
is seated,
sage-colored dress
sprawled along
the grasses,
just as she had been
all those months
ago.

at my approach she turns,
veil shimmering in the
afterglow,
caressing with her
gentle hand,
a florilegium
of rosebuds,
pale and waxy
beneath her glove.

“i thank you for coming,”
she begins,
with tones
of cordiality,
“i see you received
my note.”

“...indeed,”
i answer,
unable to draw close,
fearing that being
near to her,
would destroy
the walls of
resoluteness,
i wrestled
to preserve.
“i come to
serve whatever
my lady
requires…”

at this she rises,
and takes a pace
towards me,
for my reply came
in tones of mere
courtesy,
as opposed to my
notes of passion
from our previous
meeting.
“noble priest…
my heart aches
as though it
were a tender
wound…
i feel numb—
and my chest
is dry of
tears to spend…”

here she hesitates,
uncertain how to
continue.
i wait quietly
for her words to
gather,
burying my nails
into the skin
below my cope.

finally she says,
“there are few,
good priest,
whom i have
found solace
in their presence…
yet…
that night in winter,
of my mother’s
burial—
your company
reassured my
bleeding sorrows,
that there are
others who
suffer
as i do…”

i level my breath
to steady the
tremble of my thighs.
“many suffer in ways
that we cannot see…”
i whisper.
ita sum solus…

she takes a single
step back,
for my words
are thin and
reserved.
“perhaps,
noble priest.
indeed they do…
but forgive me
for being forward—
solace is scarce
in a home of
weeping...
but time may
heal such wounds,
if your comfort
would be
permitted again.”

she lingers for my reply,
and i am frightened to
answer,
but i cannot turn
away.

her appeal
nearly shatters
the pieces
of my heart,
and i scramble
to gather
the quiet
constraint
around me,
and stave the
rising sob.

“my lady,”
i begin,
bowing my
head to avoid
her unseen gaze,
“i condole the
pain you have
endured—
truly, i do…
but how would
your father feel
if you were…
consorting
with a man of
my station?”

“he…
need not know…”
she says cautiously,
pulling her
riding cloak close.
“i come often to visit
my mother,
and pray for her
Ascendancy…”

i cannot—i cannot.

“my lady…
i am unworthy
of your presence…
and for
the words
of solace
you claim i bring—
i cannot
express
my thanks…

please, do not trouble
yourself with my
company…
it is not fitting
that i should be
the root of your
comfort…”

her hands tremble,
and the flowers
in her arms
fall one by one;
yet her frame
remains still
and firm,
“do you decline, then?”

i am duty-bound.
you cannot have her.

i nod my head,
and allow my
eyes to meet hers,
“...this…this
is merely the
life of our
stations…
my lady…
we are
forbidden...”

she turns away
and stills the
quiver in her
voice,
“indeed, priest.
such is the way,
if that is what
you believe.”

bowing low,
i say these words
that i scorn
within my heart,
“it is.
farewell, my lady.”

she does not wish
me a farewell,
but fixes her
stare upon her
mother’s grave,
tightening her
clasp around her
cloak.
unable to speak further,
i retreat into the
brush,
wishing to bury
my feelings
among the
resting dead.

over the summer
i was seized by the
claws of an illness.
it began during the
gathering,
whilst uttering
the morning
prayers.
the room had spun
beneath me,
as i grasped for
something to
hold me steady,
straining to complete
my task.
afterwards,
the acolytes
begged for me
to retire early,
claiming they could
complete the
preparations
for the day,
and i was compelled
to comply.

idle hands grant sinful thoughts.
i am duty bound.

though i spent
the many months
since our last
meeting,
keeping my heart
confined in a
glass bottle—
my hallucinations
unraveled the
labor i had done
to forget her,
crafting her
elegant apparition,
to perch on my
bedside.

i was unaware
of the time that
passed hence,
for every moment
spent awake,
blurred as one
single age
of feverish
restlessness.

though, at times
i felt
as though she
was truly at my side—
pressing my hand,
filling the room
with the smell of
rosewater…
yet when i allowed
my eyes to close
for a brief moment,
she no longer remained.
with what little
strength animated
my arm,
i would stretch
it towards her,
rasping out her
name.

when she was not in my dreams,
she remained in my thoughts,
in such ways that
i would be shamed
for my wishes,
but i could not
cease them,
for my body was
alone,
aching for the
touch of a
comforting hand
to stroke the
flush from my
cheek.

one thought of mine,
manifested above all,
irrational—
though fervent,
stretching into
my recovery:

i cannot carry on this way.

my recovery is lingering,
allowing me ample time
to reflect on my words,
without the strength
to weep.

i claimed that we were
forbidden…
though it were true,
i could not help
but feel as though
it would be all
worthwhile,
even if she
did not return
my feelings.

Wrefeal would be
deeply disappointed,
and might not
grant me
Ascendancy…
but…one lifetime
with her—
how eagerly my reflections
turn to ponder thus…
and…i loathe the
part of me that
wonders if it is all
truly worthwhile.
am i not ashamed now?
oh—

these reflections are
bleeding into the
day and through
the night,
until i am barely
able to
stand the sound
of my thoughts.
at times my
body grows weary,
only just keeping
hold of myself
and not merely
succumbing to
my disease—
fading away.


i am entirely torn
until my browned
snowdrop,
wrinkled and
smelling of dust,
falls from my
history book,
where i had
hidden it
those months past,
and lands upon
my breast.
it lies there
untouched,
for i am
frightened to
bend the
delicate petals
and ruin my
remaining token
of the princess’
affections.

the sight of the gift,
twists the emptiness
of my gut,
as the furled pages
of my book
crumple within
my grasp.

she cared…
and i turned away…
what have i done?

i need the air for my
illness…
my lungs are weak
from coughing fits
that seized me
through the night—
the air would
benefit my health…
is that not what
the physician
had told me?

these are the thoughts
that muddle my
hazy mind,
as i pick my way
along the ashy
path,
lined with stretching
elm and beech.
garbed in a sable
cassock,
i draw the folds
of my mantle close,
stumbling over
unseen root and stone,
as i keep my gaze
downcast.

at first i was merely
wandering—
treading down paths
i have never roamed—
but now i find myself
on a familiar road,
lit by crumbled posts
and leaky lanterns.
the cathedral looms
in the gloomy
twilight,
steeples glowing
with flickering lights,
striking the sky
above the forest top.

i falter at the crossroad,
tugging at my strings
with shaky hands,
wrestling with my sense
before continuing with
a reluctant tread,
almost pushing aside
the acknowledgment
of two finely
adorned steeds,
tied up before the doors.

prayers for the dead
might rectify these sins…
fervent for their
Ascendancy…
that and nothing more…

slipping into the
hushed grounds,
i creep along the brambles,
often pausing to cower
behind a grave when
the wind rustled their leaves.
perspiration ran down
my cheeks,
dampening my skin
as the breeze caressed my
face.
frequently my route
was interrupted by
my will to turn back,
withdrawing a few paces,
before continuing on
with growing hesitation.

silent prayers were
formed upon my lips,
but only Wrefeal knows
who they were truly for.

when my stumbling crawl,
led me near to the
queen’s aging grave,
i froze for many moments,
trying to calm my
pounding heart,
as it thrummed in
my skull.

i cannot do this.
i know this well,
yet why can i not
refrain myself?

do not…
just one glance…
no—
please…

groaning softly,
i lift my head above
the thicket,
only to catch a trailing
glimpse of her
garments as she
vanishes among the
foliage.

i pull away at once,
and breath heavily
into my hands.
i should not
have done that.
i should not
have done that.

Father—
what is left of me to do this?

i am a fool,
yet are we not made
to be thus?

through the
wrestle of soul
and flesh,
time continues to
fade as all things
shall.
passings become
months,
and months give
way to many
countless ages
of the mundane.

tasks are heavy
burdens, yet
distractions for
the aching mind,
because
idle hands grant sinful thoughts,
idle hands grant sinful thoughts—

candles wane and fire dwindle,
just as our withering bodies
return to ash,
to sing the song of rot…
the ink and sound of all things dead.

as ash-flecked snow falls
from the shattered skies,
the Lord Bishop
approaches me
with his solemn eyes
carrying a thoughtful glisten.

“father eldir,”
he says,
pulling me aside,
“you are assigned
as the princess’
spiritual adviser—
by order of our King,
and shall be residing
with the Ash Divine
to offer her
counsel and prayers.”

i grasp the stone column
beside me,
steadying the sway
of my frame.

i cannot smother
the thoughts of
her trailing touch.

of course…
of course it must be thus…

seeing her veiled face,
tight-lipped and cordial
to greet me
at my arrival,
and having to
pay my respect
with a half-hearted smile,
squeezed my tender heart
into a shape unfamiliar to me—
a shape bent and crooked,
cracked along the edges.

uncertainly,
i begin the princess’
counseling,
offering her the
guidance for
spiritual understanding
that her father
believed she needed
to one day rule the
kingdom.
he recalled my presence
from the night i prayed
for his wife,
and professed he received
a vision from Wrefeal…
one that would bring
comfort for his heartbroken
daughter.
the irony of it all…

though we sat together,
neither of us were
truly there,
distanced between a
wall forged of
unraveled emotions,
things unspoken between us.
my gaze often drifts to
the tiled floors,
only rising to
glance for a moment
longer than i should.
she would stare
silently at me
as she listens
to my cautious words,
with a melancholy
mien about her.

it was as though i was
treading around a thornbush,
trying to avoid pressing
the sharpened points
into my bleeding
skin,
to reach the rose
that was buried
beneath the needles.

my duty now was
to her well-being,
and i could not fail
the task…
i could not fail her
as i did before…

for all my caution,
my hands tighten
around my sacred
texts,
whenever she
speaks to me—
as if her voice alone
could unsteady my
very soul—
as she offers quiet
questions about
my life,
to which i reply
in short,
uncertain tones.

every morning
i lead her in prayer,
fumbling at times
for the proper
words,
for the mere feeling
of her presence
is distracting.
the apologies
for my mistakes
are swift and shameful,
yet she accepts them
with a hint of warmth,
in her smile,
hidden beneath her
wistful bearing.
even just a ghost of
a smile is enough
to make my
heart throb.

i am losing hold of myself.

ages pass,
and my connection
with the princess,
that was once a forbidden
attachment,
is now a formal
agreement,
plagued with moments
i cling to with a
crooked heart.

i still fumble for my words,
yet she kindly waits
for my utterances to
unravel, offering a quiet
word of her own
to help me.

though her lips shape
pleasant smiles,
she appears far
more forlorn than
she has ever been,
often staring at the
ashy garden from
her chamber window,
half listening to my
obliging teachings—
as if distracted
by a secret,
melancholy thought
that i dare not
inquire about—
offering soft
replies that
feel empty
to me.

my prayers have weakened
as my resolve has,
for i carry heavy shame
for all the promises
i made,
to my father…
to my lady…
and yet i could not keep them.

the king has fallen ill,
compelled to lie abed
as his frail body wastes,
and an omen of ill
tidings has descended
upon the citadel.
as a flickering flame
is smothered
by the end of
a candle
dripping wax
upon the altar,
the Ash Divine
begins to wane.

…father…
please…
shelter Elvy
from further
evil.

during one quiet morn,
whilst i was engrossed in
guiding the Lady Elvy
in her studies of
the sacred texts—
she appeared lost
in one of those
secret thoughts,
and i wrestled to
keep my gaze
from lingering
too long upon her.

after a brief moment,
i placed my text
aside to rub life into
my blackened fingers,
for they ached from a
creeping chill slipping
through the cracks in the
walls of stone—
and as i raised my head once more,
i caught her lingering stare,
that rested on my hands,
then lifted to my face.
warmth flushed my cheeks,
and i had to avert my gaze,
for the memory of her touch
that night,
returned forbidden to my mind.

“pray answer me this, priest,”
she said, allowing her finger
to follow the leaf of her page.

i gave her a modest bow,
“...anything you require,
my lady.”

she paused before replying,
“how do you think of me?”

my reply was caged,
tentative as i found the words,
“i…respect you
el—
pardon—my lady.”
your eyes are the
altars of a
seraphic fire,
flecked with gold,
yet too sacred to be
seen—
“you are kind—”
your grace is that
of a flower petal
upon the surface
of a silver lake—
and benevolent
to those who are
humble...”

she returned her attention
to the text before her,
“and this is your reply?”

“y-yes my lady…
shall i offer you
further flattery?”


she did not answer me,
though she faltered as
she turned her page,
“no, that is well enough.”

i think about her question
often through the night,
for what reply was she
hoping to receive?
it leaves me perplexed,
and i would rather
it remain this way,
for i dare not assume
her meaning—
surely i have spoiled any
chances i once had
to earn her love.

yet in the recess of my mind,
a flicker of hope remains,
and though i try to smother
its weakening flame,
i wonder…
perhaps i am worthy enough?



i find myself caught up
in my earlier reflections,
as i step through the
high halls of Cinder Seyn,
and walk past the king’s
chamber—
i falter in my step
as i hear the
reedy voice of our ailing king,
as he speaks to his
beloved daughter,
in tones of solemnity.

i know i should not,
but i cannot stop myself
from pressing against the wall,
pale cheek to cold stone,
clasping my sacred texts close,
in forlorn hope
to hear their words.

“—i am dying, my elvy,
so you must swear to me thus…”
the king’s voice comes strained,
through a weakened wheeze.

the starling-soft notes of the
lovely lady elvy,
follow his appeal,
“oh, my father,
do not speak of such—
but i shall promise to you,
whatever you wish.”

“...when you are enthroned
once i am gone,
you must marry
an honorable man—
one to keep the sacred
line of the Ash Divine…
and preserve our legacy.”

oh…

there is a pause and the
ruffle of silky sheets,
before the lady replies,
“yes father, i shall.”

“swear it to me.”

my breath halts in my chest—

“i swear, my father,
i shall.”

studies have become
quiet—
briefly
filled by my
insights,
as i occupy my
thoughts
by the sacred teachings
as though it alone
could sustain me.
my figure wanes,
engulfed by the
layers of my cope,
as i do penance,
perhaps…
Wrefeal
shall forgive me for
my sins…

lady elvy
notices my withdrawal,
and the decline in
my health,
at times inquiring
about my wellbeing,
to which i answer
cordially.

“are you well,
father eldir?”
she asks with
a softness in
her eyes,
that is the worst
of it.

i pause before i
reply, masking
the tremble of
my voice with
feigned cordiality,
“...yes, my lady.
you need not fear
for my well-being.”



rumors have been
circulating among
the servants
of the citadel,
that the lady elvy
has been holding
correspondence with
a prince from the
Sovereignty Syld,
the kingdom of
rock and severed trees—

the prince shall be
staying at the
citadel—
the king is succumbing
to his illness,
and the daughter left
of the Ash Divine
shall receive the throne…
the prince shall stay.
that is enough.

yet i am only her priest,
meant to serve as she
rises,
while i instead sink.
for how will i
reach Ascendancy now
with all that i have done?

i have been a fool,
of the nature of all mankind…
i shall not name it.
i cannot allow myself
to fail once more.