Hello, Láquesis writing in for the second season of FWW.
This work has mentions of suicidal thoughts, e.d.s, control of diet,
physical and phycological abuse and neglect. Read with caution and most importantly, enjoy.
Thank you for your time.
— L
How is your sister?
In truth, such a question sounds simple, benign under the guise of concern, instead of the malice that tinted the eyes of the person who had asked him.
It’s a simple question, very simple indeed, and it would require him no longer than a word to get it over with, a simple "good", a small "well", an appreciative "very well, thank you". He could dismiss it, as simple as he always has, ever since he has been able to bear words.
How is Eira? Is she well? Is she still playing?
Yes, how is Eira? How is his sister?
Elio has never had a relationship as complicated in his entire life as the one he has with his own sister. It’s strange, to think of her and not know what to say without a script practised. It’s odd, too, because to the untrained eye, they were nail and flesh, companions and comrades, they were close to anyone who looked in from the outside.
Eira Armendí, firstborn of the Armendí's 6th generation. She was the original heir to their riches and lands, their golden princess, grace and beauty encompassing her forever, the ace of many arts but— much to many people's demise— master of none. The lifeline of a heritage that was threatening to be forgotten.
Yes, indeed, how is Eira Armendí?
How was she, when Elio still shared stitches and bruises with her? How was she in the past, when walls were too thin to keep secrets but too thick to let them out? When nights were endless and days passed like a blur? When candlelight chandeliers would hang over their heads, their tired minds wishing for the screws to let loose just a bit so they could be crushed under its weight?. How was Eira when she and Elio shared more than blood, and how is she now, having Elio, her baby brother, her old companion— and to everyone inside the Armendí bloodline—, her replacement, gone forever, married to the prince of the country no less?
Elio thinks of her as he plays, his bony fingers pressing gentle white and black keys, not quite used to no being in companionship of the chords of her violin. He thinks of her as he remembers how a fiddler needs a piano player, how every pressed and caressed chord needs the soft push of ivory white.
He remembers their duets always, holding them close to his heart like a golden locket, the same way a child holds onto their plush animals at night for comfort, and marines to the shaft of their boats in a storm for safety. He hears their melodies, beautiful and intricate, rehearsed for hours and hours until both their hands trembled, and they had to put them in ice buckets to avoid the pain. Elio is addicted to being silent, addicted to never speaking what’s truly in his mind, but if he ever allowed himself to tell the truth, if he allowed his voice to answer the dreaded question about who his sister was, and, more importantly, who his sister was for him, he'd say she was his candle in the dark of the unforgiving void of the night, his coat under the heavy rain and thunder. Eira was comfort, as cold and unforgiving as it was. When asked about his feelings on their separation, on the matter of their dead silence, he has to bite his tongue to avoid saying misses her.
Eira was cold, and her temper resembled much their father’s in a way that made every inch of his skin crawl. She was ruthless, and unkind most of the time, but there were small pieces of her he saw that would stay embedded in his heart, much like the silver daggers her tongue threw at him.
Elio can still feel her cold eyes drilling his back, and he can hear her nonchalant tone right above him, making him feel smaller than he already was when they were children. He can see her ignoring him, and remembers how it felt to be on the constant end of her wounded pride and self-esteem after their parents were nothing short of cruel. Despite this, he remembers her putting a hand on his shoulder before big events when he became a bundle of nerves, he remembers her coaxing him into rehearsing when his brain wasn’t particularly kind, as if she knew music was the only thing that could ever clear his mind. He remembers her feigning ignorance of his whereabouts, even if he had caught her staring at him through the glass windows of their house, mouth slightly agape when he was attempting to climb back into his room after a night of enjoying city life at night. Most importantly, he remembers her ignoring his strict diet and training schedule, he remembers Eira giving him snacks and food and entertainment in the oddest of ways just to make Elio feel heard and seen.
Elio remembers her, cold as ice, rough as stone, loathing as fire blazing from her heart itself, caring for him in the strangest of ways.
Eira, as cruel as she was, was also kind in her own way. Elio would be caught dead before ever admitting this, but he missed her.
How is your sister?
His sister is wounded, her emotions lashing out in all sorts of ways after her psyche and physique have been hurt. He heard her cry and scream, heard her voice echo through the halls of the mansion, he could still feel her desperation clung onto the walls as she knew not how to be someone for their parents again, their expectations set up too high they couldn't even see the end of it.
So he remembers her fondly, as he plays alone to a song once made for two. In his mind, he can still hear the gentle melodies she could provoke out of her violin, and he can see her smile at herself in the mirror after a good performance, knowing that a part of her thought— knew even— she was good, she was so good.
As he plays nightingales short on a few chords, while others have failed to see sight of her for years now, he remembers Eira glowing, caring, wanting, loving.
He thinks he’ll always remember her fondly, wrapping the memories of her in the secret chamber of his heart, never to see the light of day, only for the two of them to recall.
—
