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09-19-2015, 01:24 PM
Perhaps, in some essence, in some sway, he was partially reborn – devoid of the harsh intricacies of his namesake, of his invocations, of his withering, crumbling, brooding soul, and given half a chance at peace. He snagged and grasped and clenched at all of it, grateful for the chance to have his daughter back, returned from the barbs, from the nettles, from the haunting inquiries and iniquities stinging him every moment of every day she’d been gone from his side. The Reaper, unrelenting in his devotion, still smiled as she touched him for the briefest of moments, lingering in the fold of familial constancy and faithfulness (because while the world burned and scorched and reminded him of his failures, she was still there, and he’d give up the portions of his rancor just to see her there), and even allowed her the smallest of moments and gestures of flowers laden upon his sword. He might have given the most minute of laughs towards the ivory raven and its nymph, staring at the tiny, regal blossoms and all the memories, the images, the pictures of her came swimming back – so he blinked, imagining sadly, that they too would fall, wither, decay and die, still not strong enough to combat the vicious forces of his presence. The beast, the monster, the ogre, could only be so altered, so persuaded… So he waited and waited, watching for the first to design a pathway down to the ground, and when none did he arched his brow in utter curiosity, not bothered by the strange picture and image he likely made, too entranced, too beguiled, too allured by the sudden mystery woven over his crown. They should’ve been fragile bulbs of the present, then descended to the afterlife, just as everything else did, like the grass beneath his feet, like the bonds between his long-lost companions, like the twisted, fleeting, blistering chords of his heart – but there they stayed, perennial and enduring. “Why don’t they fall?,” he whispered, nearly inaudible, perplexed and disjointed by the serpentine snags and snarls of this enigma; and he would’ve delved deeper into the labyrinth, had others not soon joined them. He immediately felt sheepish and foolish. The rejoicing he’d sensed in the cajoling of his daughter ceased abruptly as Tiamat approached: as if some monstrous quality, some intimidating candor had been lost in the wake of petals and dulcet clamor. The Reaper yearned to hide, back away, away, away into the crush of melting snow and promised caves, awaiting some laughter to flood over his expense, some ebullience to be postured by his image, for the ocean femme to sound like the gulls, screeching through the mist – but when all she did was smile, bow, and curtsy, he was at even more of a loss. Unused to kindness, to benevolence, to the arts and foils of tenderness, his mask lay crumpled and broken, all the indifference and nonchalance crawling away and leaving a beast with widened eyes and a flower crown across his brow in its wake. He somehow managed to find his voice, kindling it with pride, with reverence, where his child was concerned. “A pleasure, Tiamat.” Maybe that wasn’t a lie, and maybe he didn’t need to immerse himself into the murk and mire. He didn’t know what that meant. “This is Lothiriel, my daughter.” And then the girl, with a sound of shells and bells, seemed to want to add to his circlet of florets, and he was left speechless again. He’d done nothing to warrant her affection or altruism, and nearly bestowed her with the notion, but one more came – Enna – and the Reaper was as lost as he could be, drowning in the wake of the unknown. And when she arrived again with more flowers, with more delicacies, with more things for him to ruin and demolish and spear, the broken monster bowed his head, and allowed them their wishes, their dreams, their silly, insipid little instances and triumphs. In the back of his mind, he thought of his father, of friends, of how to make them and how to break them, if this was the beginning of lifted scars or simply a trail off the beaten path, not meant to represent anything other than his shame, his regrets, and his rue. He managed the swiftest of chuckles, hoped it sounded less empty, less hopeless, than he felt. “You are too generous, ladies.” The discomfort plucked and skewed at his heart, at the nefarious, sinister twitches of each pulsing, maddening beat, of the stifled discord and the plunging soulnessness, gathering too much and not enough. To the Time Mender, he bestowed some manner of business, as if he could appeal to her even while being savaged by their whims and resplendence, their light carving too many shapes in his darkened veil. He’d been blinded by their musing, by their brilliance, by their compassion – and had nothing to give them in return. “I require your assistance in a journey to the Edge, Enna, when we have finished adorning my crown.” Then, as if accepting his inevitable fate, he bowed his head once more to the lavished bits and their nearness, permitting them an opportunity to anoint, to consecrate, him with silliness and mirth. i'm not here looking for absolution, because I found myself an old solution |
@Enna @Tiamat @Lothíriel
