Regina Saxony
on the topic of birch trees
He meets her under the birch trees and Regina doesn’t turn away from the clear water of the pond extending forever before her. “You’re an idiot.” It rolls off of her sharp tongue so naturally, but it gets caught in the nest all of the conflicting and convicting emotions built in her throat. The ambition of young men and the blind love of young women shine so brightly on that dimming horizon. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Think about where we’re going to be in ten years.” He places his calloused hands on her hipbones, resting that strong chin on the top of her head. Crickets scream loudly, deafening their senses, leaving nothing but the foreboding trees to frame the purple night. The moon casts an iridescence on the silver birches, imperfectly beautiful with their black embossing and thin, lithe branches. The flutter of the green leaves mimic the fluttering of her chest. “A modest life,” he whispers excitedly into her ear.
She bites her lip, the salty dew beginning to build on her lashes. The cold wind nips her skin whilst his breath warms her neck. Regina can’t decide whether she smells blood or honey in the breezes of May, but the scent makes her sick with indecisiveness. “A modest life isn’t something to fight for, Ilya.” She sputters in a moment of clarity.
He kisses the crown of her head. For once, her dark curls aren’t ensnared in a silky scarf. Slightly damp, her hair has a light, tickling frizz that chafes his fittingly large nose. Ilya frowns, and she can feel it. “I don’t want to work in a factory or be a baker my whole life…” Her voices rises and cracks with a newfound passion (or a childish plea), “I don’t want to knead dough until I bleed or listen to the sounds of metal on metal!”
“Regina.” He sternly whispers. Ilya’s arms tighten around his lark, tears beginning to glisten in her hair like the birch bark in the indigo eve. “Regina, what the Tsar is doing is wrong.”
“And robbing banks and assassinating rich people is right?” She bites in a blinding fury. His head drives further down into her hair, like a boy hiding in his mother’s skirts. Red with either anger or embarrassment, the warmth radiates off of her even in the coolness of the night, even with the southern winds and their crisp harshness. She’s cloaked in the cordiality of her final decision and his old woolen jacket.
“Ilya, I’m not going to set fire to myself to make everyone warm.”
He kisses the top of her head one last time and forlornly stares at their reflection in the pond with the backdrop of the stars and the birches next to them in a fairytale-esque, brutal, perfection. “I won’t ask you to.”
And with that, they stood there with the sounds of the crickets, birds, and silent weeping to accompany their inherent grief. They stood in each other’s grasps. When they tired of standing, they laid in the muddy earth by the forever extending clear ripples of the water-- which reflecting the heavens above in a serene, teary, torture. And when they tired of laying, they parted in a mutual silence that was the equivalent of hot coals on the soles of tender feet.
But even then, they never tired of each other.
“Think about where we’re going to be in ten years.” He places his calloused hands on her hipbones, resting that strong chin on the top of her head. Crickets scream loudly, deafening their senses, leaving nothing but the foreboding trees to frame the purple night. The moon casts an iridescence on the silver birches, imperfectly beautiful with their black embossing and thin, lithe branches. The flutter of the green leaves mimic the fluttering of her chest. “A modest life,” he whispers excitedly into her ear.
She bites her lip, the salty dew beginning to build on her lashes. The cold wind nips her skin whilst his breath warms her neck. Regina can’t decide whether she smells blood or honey in the breezes of May, but the scent makes her sick with indecisiveness. “A modest life isn’t something to fight for, Ilya.” She sputters in a moment of clarity.
He kisses the crown of her head. For once, her dark curls aren’t ensnared in a silky scarf. Slightly damp, her hair has a light, tickling frizz that chafes his fittingly large nose. Ilya frowns, and she can feel it. “I don’t want to work in a factory or be a baker my whole life…” Her voices rises and cracks with a newfound passion (or a childish plea), “I don’t want to knead dough until I bleed or listen to the sounds of metal on metal!”
“Regina.” He sternly whispers. Ilya’s arms tighten around his lark, tears beginning to glisten in her hair like the birch bark in the indigo eve. “Regina, what the Tsar is doing is wrong.”
“And robbing banks and assassinating rich people is right?” She bites in a blinding fury. His head drives further down into her hair, like a boy hiding in his mother’s skirts. Red with either anger or embarrassment, the warmth radiates off of her even in the coolness of the night, even with the southern winds and their crisp harshness. She’s cloaked in the cordiality of her final decision and his old woolen jacket.
“Ilya, I’m not going to set fire to myself to make everyone warm.”
He kisses the top of her head one last time and forlornly stares at their reflection in the pond with the backdrop of the stars and the birches next to them in a fairytale-esque, brutal, perfection. “I won’t ask you to.”
And with that, they stood there with the sounds of the crickets, birds, and silent weeping to accompany their inherent grief. They stood in each other’s grasps. When they tired of standing, they laid in the muddy earth by the forever extending clear ripples of the water-- which reflecting the heavens above in a serene, teary, torture. And when they tired of laying, they parted in a mutual silence that was the equivalent of hot coals on the soles of tender feet.
But even then, they never tired of each other.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is going to jump around a lot