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03-29-2015, 07:10 AM
Trepidation and foreboding clawed at his heart, and for once he was not an untamed heathen launching crusades, assaults, and munitions across his vast playground, suddenly combined, taut, and tethered to the snarling caprice of life and all of its unholy pursuits. The child didn’t want to look at the gentle, forgiving mother of Arwen and Asch, who’d already suffered, who’d already been through enough heartache and sorrow, who’d already endured the suffering glances and barbaric blows of the world. Would hastening one more break her apart? He cringed inwardly, unsure of how to proceed, how to formulate and process the information readily: how does one tell a mother her child had been killed? Her tone was too gentle, too amiable, laced and woven and withering at the ends, as if she knew something was awry, like he’d given himself away in the short distance, morphed and altered into an entirely different beast, and no matter what mask he wore, it wouldn’t hide the pain, heal the wound. The prince bowed his head against her voice, stared at the tundra ground and steeled himself, strengthened his resolve, until he could raise his gaze back into hers. Any amount of rigor, of brawn, of tenacity, of might, formed in the back of his throat, was swallowed, disappearing into the depths of his chest, of his lungs, trying to form the right words, the right framework, then it tumbled from his lips in a disturbing finality. “Arwen is in the Frostbreath Steppe.” She’s gone, she’s bones, she’s ash and dust his mind burst, bleated, shouted, howled, a horrific venue of her fallen reveries, of eternal lifelessness, left in the archways of ice and snow because he had no way of dragging her into their home, of burying her where she belonged. A hitch broke over his voice, but he urged himself not to sob, not to cry, not to bow against the wake of despondency and desolation; her mother would have enough trials without him falling apart in front of her. “She’s been murdered.” The terminating word silenced him for several moments, snippets of the image forming a poignant, unearthly bridge, sinking and sliding and making it all the more real, all the more tangible, all the more awful, overwhelming, and unjust. He glanced off into the horizon for a few more seconds, not sure how to offer any consolations, any noteworthy notions, other than a barrage of apologies. “I’m so sorry. I was too late-" I couldn’t do anything was left unsaid, but understood. He hadn’t done anything to aid her. He’d come at the finale, at the end, when there was only blood and demise. The sob caught in his vocals and shriveled there, several tears sliding down his cheeks, grief wearing away when he hadn’t been able to express it along the Steppe (it’d only been raw, tremulous anger then, staring across at a beast who’d murdered, who’d damned, for the sake of justice); the spark of indignation roared again at the thought of the bestial monster, and incitement curled against his chords. “But I know who did it.”
OOC :: @[Arah]
"speech"
