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It calls out in twisted gentleness. A hopeless pity. It knots his gut and sickens his ears. He turns his head back away, harks leaning. God was this what it had come to. Was this what low and pathetic base his heart had dragged him to? Had it made him so mortal again, that none now looked on with revere and impression at his golden coat. Now must he suckle upon pity of mares and babes? When all learned he had a heart, when he learned it still beat alive and full of feeling, would he be the golden any more? So much rested on that title, that Golden Thief the Laurelin. What would become of it now when such weaknesses had arisen again? What will happen now that there were weapons more painful than steel to dig into his chest. The golden’s world was spiraling downward. Dark nights and long red trails do not spawn happy dreams of futures. He saw nothing but this weakness, these torturous reminders, and the call of mortality. A blindfold and attempted comfort from other victims all lost within their sorrows, all hopelessly tied to their fates. Good gods it made him sick! Face contorts tightly away from this unhappy vision, but then he hears finally through his own thick fog, the hooves in the snow and the sweet yet sour breath on the breeze. A dragon calls over head, rustling and uneasy. Head turns slightly again to see the comer. Nymeria. His hide quivers as a chill runs down his spine. Her red eyes give her away, showing her still lost in the raptures of lies. Like a drop of water on a thirsting tongue the gold finds something there to cling onto. Coming closer with the concern of a friend the mare stands as a reminder, a token of the illustrious titles he dearly grappled for. She was under his spell. She was a mark of the danger of the Laurelin. The lies he spun for others and himself. What happened? Those lies had been torn to shreds. His fine multi colored coat of them was ripped to pieces, not by Ophelia's blade but from within. The rosen mare trembles staring to him through his stupor. "If you feel nothing for me, then just say it." Her voice hissed, but yearns. Yet he didn't say it did he. He didn't speak to any deadness, or waste voids. He didn't say there was nothing. The visions of white and gold spin in his vision. Her words mutter on but they come just the same. "I love you, Thranduil." The fallen gold lost in his own world jerks violently, then his head drops to the snow. She stumbles back shrinking way, and though he sees himself standing there struggling in his nightmare, he also sees her. Her soft rosen skin torn and tears welling up hot. And then he watched himself tear her to shreds. Backed against her own words he watched her take the heavy price for them. Charging her with blame she did not deserve. And even through all that she begs. "Why can't I at least try?" Didn't she get it? Didn't she understand? So perceptible they were supposed to be, but couldn't she see? That was Thranduil. That was the broken crowned thief. That was all that was left. Nothing but pieces. Then, she showed she had some glue. "I don't know much about the positives of love...but I'll show you." Her hot skin presses to his, her hair falling over his eyes like a veil. And she showed him, as warmth and still quiet sleep enveloped them both. The last he had for many a moon. A groan rolls from the golden's lips. "What always happens." The crowned head at last picks up and looks back to dark shadow. His heart still races, aching. His body shifts. Though the blood felt hot and nerves singed with burns, his body felt cold and damned. So cold. "The world gets too small...the dark corners fill with light." And yet remain so empty. The past finds him. The world comes to know the man behind the veil. And yet, it holds so little, and so fragile a being. Yet here she stands. A reminder that there were still a few untainted marks of gold about this world. That there were still corners he could escape from where his heart beat could be silenced. The gold's senses spin, and whether blood loss or exhaustion his desires twisted into the selfish, pathetic yearning of a child. He wanted that now. Yes.... He wanted to feel that again. He wanted the hot red fired of molten gold to wash over his cold body and make it forget the soft gentle warmth of that rosen's skin. He wanted to show that aching heart that its desires could be met anywhere. That the rosen meant nothing more than any other mare. A trembling awoke in him, some nerve still left unburned begins to feel the insanity and irrationality of this declaration. The sick feelings of utter wrongness threatened. Yet the gold was determined to shake free. So real was the love he felt for that rosen babe, he was clawing himself up to escape it. Tearing up what little remained of himself. Much further and he would pull his own newly awoken heart from his chest. Much further and there would be nothing left. Yet the thought is greeted only with bliss. To be nothing, to know nothing. No future. No pain. With a wide insanity of a madman he lusted after the nothingness. A golden leg, brown with stained red strikes out, and the gold lurches to pull himself up. Yet the bread of lies and madness are void of strength and he stumbles, head falling low with the threatening darkness. Earth eyes look though to see her figure, vague though it was, distanced. The gold coat flinches for it. With the efforts only the insane can manage he raises his head, and calls to her. "Closer, friend." For the closer she came the more the ghosts and feelings might wash away from his mortal flesh. That, and he was unable to speak the word 'help' as he knees quaked. "Tell me," His physical brokenness cracks into his voice. "-what shelter is left for those who walk this earth in the darkness of yours and mine?" He speaks to her own troubles. His voice, straining over its broken cracks to mimic her tones of shared pity and pain. Straining to pull her in closer to him. He wavers, pushed by even the smallest breeze from the cliffs, and his eyes are dilated, moving with the slowness of a drunkard. Yet his crowned head reaches out, if she allows, to brush her own coat. To prove the soft heat of the rosen's breast wasn't the only warmth in this world. To prove the electricity which zapped through him as she had touched him was common to all. For deep inside that golden man, he feared the truth of his worst fear was those would be yet more lies cut and left to join his blood upon the ground. And the rosen would continue to rise up alongside that white gold eyed ghost. All his mind and body surged and strained to hold him up, to will him to touch and console. All in an effort to pull the rosen's name back into the mud which no longer seemed to touch or stain its pure growing form. "talk talk talk" OOC: Thranduil
His words are clever and bright
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@Nymeria
![[Image: 5381546acbe33]](http://images.helovia.net/index.php/view/5381546acbe33)
Feel free to use any force/magic on Thranduil, short of killing him.
Please tag in every post.
Ask Thranduil any question in the world, he'll be forced to answer on his profile. PM with your question.
