invuhell



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    “You know,” Olruggio says, roughly. He doesn’t move to take Qifrey’s hand again. “You know. You can’t not know, Qifrey.”

    Qifrey just looks at him. “I do.”

    The rain continues falling.

    (And so Olruggio forgets. And he inevitably figures it out again, because of course he does; and he inevitably chooses to forget again, and again, and again, because his heart is always the same. The story is always the same. Like a tale from under a silverwood tree, like a myth from the days of old, not so much tied by the constraints of the narrative so much as being narrative itself. Antigone must bury her brother. Iphigenia must be put to death. At a thousand turns, in a thousand ways, Orpheus must turn, and he must look, again, and again.

    And Olruggio forgets.)

    There is an old story about a witch and a silverwood tree.

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    01 Jun 2026

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    I could do so much more with you, he’d sworn, studying Sheep-stained bracelets — longing for a claustrophobic place in his skeptical ribcage. To wound from the inside. 

    See?, he would have said, from that carcass. You bleed too. 

    Or: Soukoku, in three acts.

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    03 Apr 2024