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02-20-2017, 07:48 PM
The quarrel brewed, stirred, incensed, twisted against his throat – he felt it itch, rasp, and claw its way down his vocals, between his clenched ivories, along the length of his stubborn, audacious jaw. His prediction had been correct, the foreboding astute – because there was more laced in their argument than that of a beastly serpent who was going to pay for his actions. She’d been worried, but for him, and it sounded so stupid, so painful, so irritating, echoing through his ears, drumming along his heart, resounding, reverberating, settling as a knife within his chest. He rarely fretted about his own well being; the boy was selfish at times, greedy beyond all reason in some measures, grasping and ripping and tearing at things he couldn’t have but still craved, still yearned for, still desired, but the moments he’d ever been tethered into anxiety and apprehension had been for another’s sake. He’d furrowed his brow, sobbed, and wept when he thought she was dead. He’d screamed and promised when he knew Arwen had been bludgeoned to a certain death. He’d vowed to bring down the heavens when false Gods brutalized friends. He’d rushed headlong into battle for the sole purpose of ensuring someone else made it out alive. His figure had never been a thought. His safety had never struck a chord. His wellbeing had never been brought into question – he took his warrior prowess and sewed it directly into the parts of him that were still courageous, still enduring, still strong. Perhaps she thought so little of him, because she’d seen the boy at his worst, crumbled and broken, brought down by brethren in monster’s clothing, seething, tormented, brittle, incapable of doing anything other than swallowing, gulping for air. Maybe she pictured him as that ineffectual babe, floundering around, pretending wolves had been the culprit when all along it’d been his own foolishness, his own bravado. She might have seen it written somewhere, along the walls, in an oracle’s canvas, the story of how the prince with all his might, with his ridiculous valor, had been brought down by his own pathetic inabilities. It distorted his sights, caused his gaze to narrow, to burn, for his mouth to sizzle and sear, and he had to look elsewhere again, off into the shadows, off into the dusk, trying desperately not to fracture or yell. But in his heart, truly, he knew none of those were the case. Enna wouldn’t do that to him, wouldn’t think less of him for stumbling and falling – but he wished, desperately, that she’d believe him capable of destroying her demons for her. The scion wanted to tell her not to bother. He wanted to say don’t, like it was a simple task, like it was a burden easily passed aside for something else. He understood the notion was insipid and meaningless; he’d worry about her just as much as she’d worry about him. They could ignore and rebuff one another so hastily, so easily, but none of it would stick. So he simply nodded, pretended he comprehended her divulgence, because anything else would come out bitter or rancorous, acrid and harsh, unrelenting and persistent, and he was tired of ruining things. It was one of his greatest strengths, after all, to be granted such grand gestures and leave them wilting, withering, dying, decayed. The youth rose thereafter, prepared to leave, to depart, before he could muddle anything further, so she’d have time to heal and he’d have time to think, plot, scheme, rile Machiavellian wiles until he finally found sleep. Her final words, nothing more than whispers, like china, like glass, gave him pause, caused his skull to swivel once more in her direction, for those intrepid, brazen eyes to fold back on hers. He didn’t know how many of his lies she’d seen, how many she imagined, how many she believed rested there, brooding on his shoulders, on his brow, carved into his muscles and slate; but he tilted his head, pretending, feigning innocence, as if he had no notion of all these half-truths and falsehoods pervading his entity. She’d smack him if she knew, he was certain, how much he wanted to craft pretenses instead of honor veracity; but his candor had been upheld thus far, authentic, honest, burdened by the burning notions of abhorrence and contempt. “I could say the same for you,” Erebos nodded, wondering how many hours she’d spent sculpting a way to not incense him, to not send him scurrying into the darkness, hunting down other monsters and demons, or if she thought about doing it now, hiding more than just pain and anguish; but to lose her too would be another disastrous chapter in his already fraying livelihood. He didn’t want that. “I’ll leave you to rest,” the prince obliged, granting her peace and comfort he was currently inadequate at bestowing, looming, backing away into the shadows to dwell on the hazardous sentiments coiled within his cranium; a crown of mismatched, misshapen thorns. |
- table by Niki -
@Enna
