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07-11-2016, 02:06 AM
The lost prince dreams. He steps unbound through a forest of swords. The shadows slicing his flanks fall in straight lines, a far cry from the forests of home. Despite this - or because of it? - wonder limns his every stride. Small hooves fall neatly between the blades of grass, and though they bend for him, humble heads turning downward, he leaves them to spring up again in passing. Dreamers don’t eat. (listen -) Up ahead, the trees break and the sky peers through. This foreign sun burns hot and furious above, but despite the rivulets of salt barring his sides, the prince laughs. “Sunlight!” his voice bubbles, drunk with wonder and hoarse with disuse - or overuse. Was it the screaming of before, or the silence afterward…? But he dares not think of the waking world. He shakes it away and gambols into the meadow, his gait a strange and lateral thing, the limbs on each side swinging in pairs. (listen !) When did the scent of grass last fill his lungs? That dusty taste of day between the boughs? The prince suffers the bitter scent of the strange trees eagerly, drinking in the air like tonic. It feels so real he must be delirious, everything from the days past bleeding together in a whirl of color and sound, threatening death but unable to reach him here — where in his own mind he is still royalty, untouchable, the blood of gods and kings hot in his veins, hot in his heart. His knees bend to lay his speckled body in the grass, where at last he plasters the blades flat and sprawls back his head, regarding daylight with same fervent adoration reserved for lovers. "I missed you," he breathes. Chuckles. If dreams lasted forever, the lost prince might call himself safe. But presently he grows aware of his vulnerable state, and rolls onto his sternum. If he stares into the hot depths of the forest, it stares back. Reluctantly, his thoughts flicker back to truth, and the hard walls of reality he will find waiting when he wakes. He expects the acknowledgment alone to catapult him back, but still the strange trees linger, the unfamiliar cut of the mountains stark above them. The empty chamber of the prince's stomach growls. (you are awake) |
Leaning toward Edge or an outcast group, but keeping an open mind!
