.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me
I'm frozen by the fear in me
The King is dead.
King and Lord—beggar and pawn. Whatever royal cloak he had worn had been handed over to someone else, whatever fucking crown he'd carried upon his regal, haughty head had melted, or just been lost, and what he was left with was just his spotted, scarred skin. The marks of his own defeat, loss written into the flesh of his body. Many were lost and subtle, but a half-healed gash gaped across his left shoulder. It was just another painful reminder of what he had lost—thought he had lost—and sometimes he still regretted not letting her pearly horn strike straight into his heart.
He wouldn't be standing here, then, with only the wind as an excuse for his weeping. He wouldn't be standing here, and the owls, tucked away safely in some bush, somewhere, wouldn't be tucked away either.
They would've been dead. As dead as he.
But as it is, only the King is dead, and what's left is just a vagabond in the tattered remains of a once majestic attire. Snow and charcoal and ice. If he was beautiful, if he was striking, it wasn't his choice. Just his bloodlines. Just the way his body was composed out of angles and curves, the way his skin draped over his thick frame and pulled taut across world-weary muscles. Because in the details, where the once had been strength and beauty, something enigmatic and arcane, there was little left; pain, and the dullness of his gaze.
He didn't know what kind of pathetic strings that kept the framework of his existence together, but as he stood there with his head bent low and eyes closed (but the world won't leave him be, and the pain comes from within anyway) he almost, almost, wished they would snap. Break. Tear. For the flood to spill forth, and whatever fragile sanity he had left to be shattered. It would almost be a relief to have the world tumble down around him, and be swept away by it, rather than struggle through the resemblance of normalcy. It wasn't that he tried to be who he had been, or to pretend all was fine—it was just that he was physically unable to lose that last ounce of control. If he reached for the obliterating darkness, the chaos, the grief (too much blood on snow, the stars wheeling silently, and coldly, overhead).. he found it, but he could not step into it. He shied back. He shied back to where it was safer, but where it still hurt.
“Hey!” One black-rimmed ear flicked to the shout, but even if the wind shouted his name, why should he listen? It was not the voice of his brother. It was.. not the voice of someone who could save him. Because, that would have to be his own voice.
So he didn't listen. Turned his head away. Pressed his blue, blue eyes shut tighter.
“HEY!” What, had she been looking, seen him turn away in denial of her presence? Did she insist on shoving herself into his path? It was louder this time, more insistent, closer. He could feel her presence trickle down his spine. Don't, he wanted to snarl at her, don't come near me, because he wanted to be alone.
He wanted to keep denying to the world what was happening.
How far he was falling.
How deep.
"THE KING IS FUCKING DEA- oh."
His head had whipped around, his rough voice thundering out over the terrain, trying to dominate the harsh keening of the wind—but when his eyes had snapped open his yell had broken off, and he simply stared at her in something that could only be described as pleasant surprise. Or maybe like, shit I'm glad to see you're still alive even after I abandoned you and broke the like what 956386th promise in my life. Because that was the truth of it. He'd sworn to himself to protect her, and what had he done?
Yeah, right. Upped and left.
"Loudmouth," he said, more conversationally, when she was closer; the word might once have been a word, or an insult, but now it was simply a name—and the voice of the winter beast was warm, if tired, but warm all the same. He tried to blink his frozen tears away, thoughts touching unbidden to what he'd been thinking of earlier.
The King is dead.
The Frostheart is dead.
There was only Mauja left, now—whoever the hell that was.
[ @[Roskuld]! ]
King and Lord—beggar and pawn. Whatever royal cloak he had worn had been handed over to someone else, whatever fucking crown he'd carried upon his regal, haughty head had melted, or just been lost, and what he was left with was just his spotted, scarred skin. The marks of his own defeat, loss written into the flesh of his body. Many were lost and subtle, but a half-healed gash gaped across his left shoulder. It was just another painful reminder of what he had lost—thought he had lost—and sometimes he still regretted not letting her pearly horn strike straight into his heart.
He wouldn't be standing here, then, with only the wind as an excuse for his weeping. He wouldn't be standing here, and the owls, tucked away safely in some bush, somewhere, wouldn't be tucked away either.
They would've been dead. As dead as he.
But as it is, only the King is dead, and what's left is just a vagabond in the tattered remains of a once majestic attire. Snow and charcoal and ice. If he was beautiful, if he was striking, it wasn't his choice. Just his bloodlines. Just the way his body was composed out of angles and curves, the way his skin draped over his thick frame and pulled taut across world-weary muscles. Because in the details, where the once had been strength and beauty, something enigmatic and arcane, there was little left; pain, and the dullness of his gaze.
He didn't know what kind of pathetic strings that kept the framework of his existence together, but as he stood there with his head bent low and eyes closed (but the world won't leave him be, and the pain comes from within anyway) he almost, almost, wished they would snap. Break. Tear. For the flood to spill forth, and whatever fragile sanity he had left to be shattered. It would almost be a relief to have the world tumble down around him, and be swept away by it, rather than struggle through the resemblance of normalcy. It wasn't that he tried to be who he had been, or to pretend all was fine—it was just that he was physically unable to lose that last ounce of control. If he reached for the obliterating darkness, the chaos, the grief (too much blood on snow, the stars wheeling silently, and coldly, overhead).. he found it, but he could not step into it. He shied back. He shied back to where it was safer, but where it still hurt.
“Hey!” One black-rimmed ear flicked to the shout, but even if the wind shouted his name, why should he listen? It was not the voice of his brother. It was.. not the voice of someone who could save him. Because, that would have to be his own voice.
So he didn't listen. Turned his head away. Pressed his blue, blue eyes shut tighter.
“HEY!” What, had she been looking, seen him turn away in denial of her presence? Did she insist on shoving herself into his path? It was louder this time, more insistent, closer. He could feel her presence trickle down his spine. Don't, he wanted to snarl at her, don't come near me, because he wanted to be alone.
He wanted to keep denying to the world what was happening.
How far he was falling.
How deep.
"THE KING IS FUCKING DEA- oh."
His head had whipped around, his rough voice thundering out over the terrain, trying to dominate the harsh keening of the wind—but when his eyes had snapped open his yell had broken off, and he simply stared at her in something that could only be described as pleasant surprise. Or maybe like, shit I'm glad to see you're still alive even after I abandoned you and broke the like what 956386th promise in my life. Because that was the truth of it. He'd sworn to himself to protect her, and what had he done?
Yeah, right. Upped and left.
"Loudmouth," he said, more conversationally, when she was closer; the word might once have been a word, or an insult, but now it was simply a name—and the voice of the winter beast was warm, if tired, but warm all the same. He tried to blink his frozen tears away, thoughts touching unbidden to what he'd been thinking of earlier.
The King is dead.
The Frostheart is dead.
There was only Mauja left, now—whoever the hell that was.
[ @[Roskuld]! ]
somebody make me feel alive
and shatter me
and shatter me
