Zsoka
I live the death of the young and the free Knox has tried everything. He has done all he can as a father, all he can within his limited power, to make his son speak. But nothing has any effect, nothing can change his strange ways. Knox wants to write it off as a stubborn phase of childhood, but he recognizes the symptoms of sadness. He has failed to connect with his son on many levels, in many ways, but in this they share a sorrow that Knox can understand. He, too, hurts. He, too, finds it difficult to speak. And so Knox does not fault Milo for turning away from the world. They have both lost a friend--something more for Knox, but something important still for Milo. His first death, so young. No wonder the boy is scarred. They walk together now at a slow pace, seeking the Dauntless. Knox does not feel his ancestors as he once did, perhaps with the bridle torn and so far the connection has lost all meaning, but he takes the form of the youngest to appeal to his son's own needs. Milo knows all of Knox's secrets, all of his pain. There is a bond there that is strong in its own way, one that the now lost hunter hopes to foster. So he shows his son his magic, shows him all his power, and walks with him as an equal. Two colts, of near-equal age and similar size, both hindered by the pain that their bodies bear in backs and legs, appear at the edge of a large fall and wait. The sky above is speckled with rain that threatens to turn to snow, the clouds create a gloom that begs to be noticed. The air is cold, the hearts are colder. They stand together for warm; they touch necks, arc over each other in delicate, peaceful, pain. Archibald will come, surely he must. Knox trusts his brother, Milo his uncle. They are family, after all. "" |
[PRIVATE] Oh Uncle, Wherefor Art Thou
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12-24-2015, 09:29 PM
12-24-2015, 09:44 PM
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love? I think I used to be ashamed of my father. It's true. I think once I looked at him and I thought him pitiful, I think I hated him once, even. I hated his neglect, I hated his recklessness. But when that dog died, I could just never see him like that again. You see there was, still is, something about the way he hurts. I see it now and I know it's a pain that won't leave him. For once, he's letting himself feel. I haven't known him long but I know this is a struggle, for him. I know it's a part of letting go. I feel, I think, that it was her dying wish. But that's not something I can never know. I loved her, but she was never mine. She never will be. She'll never be anyone's again; she's just gone. Father tells me as he walks that he chooses this form for my sake, but I know that's a lie he tells himself. He chooses it because it is manifests the pain he feels inside, because every step sends a jolt of hurt and so he cannot forget that it lives in his heart, too. Zsoka's pain is similar to mine in that it never leaves us. Knox finds this simple, finds in it a reflection of how he feels and how he is scared to admit his world is now defined by. And he is unassuming, too. He is unrecognizable. Only mother and I have seen this form, only Archibald is another that might expect to find him looking different. I stay by my father's side to comfort him, I let my gold eyes wander over the dreary day, and with him I wait when our walk finds its end. We stand together for suffering, for a connection that we still struggle to find. He's given up talking, but I'm always listening. I'll never stop listening. When he starts to cry, when his chest starts to struggle, I do nothing to show that I've heard. "" Can the child within my heart rise above? @Archibald
12-24-2015, 11:17 PM
I've been known for my hate, but I'm a dealer of simple choices; for me it's never too late. please tag me
01-20-2016, 12:05 PM
Knox isn't leaving the falls he's just... leaving Milo for a bit. With Uncle Archi. :x
01-20-2016, 12:22 PM
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love? His pain is my pain. His words are my words. Does he really think I don't know what he's saying about me? I listen in silence as he speaks in a whisper not as quiet as he thinks, in a whisper not quiet enough to avoid the survey of my keen ears. They are soft, they are thin velvet that folds and turns at my command, but even they can take this hurt. Even they are trained, like the rest of my body, to suffer this constant abuse. So mother has left. That's what father tells me, that's what I'm inclined to believe. Dog is dead and mother has left; father, in his grief, is leaving me too. But he can't bear to do it as himself, can't let himself take form or responsibility. No, let the babysitter Zsoka do that work. Let the emptiness of an already dead mind bear the pain of abandoning a child. And the child? He can stand there, alone and cold, shivering unconsciously as he is splattered with water from the falls where he was raised to grow up. His father does not recognize these lands, so he has been told. These are not the hills they used to be, so he had been reminded. But the child? He doesn't know of this. All he knows, all I know, is that my father is leaving me being. Perhaps I have lost my mind, perhaps I have no love for creatures like them. Perhaps my silence cannot simply be the silence of the broken and grieving, the silence of those left alone by the few things they had learned to love. So be it. If this is my silence, I will embrace it. My mother has left. My father has left. My one friend has died; I am left with my uncle and his dog. I do not turn to watch the buckskin colt mask that my father wears fade into the shadow of his own magic and the woods, I merely exhale, expanding my nostrils and turning to look up at the remainder of my "family." He is tall. He is a giant, really. Even if I were not a mere foal I would think this. As he stands above me, he becomes a monolith that casts a massive shadow over my mind. I wonder if there is anything more to him than this great size, this magnificent strength. And what will he do with a small child like me, too broken to train and too "dumb" to make a diplomat? I stare up at him, my golden eyes curious as to just what he can do. What will he do with a grieving, mad child like me? "" Can the child within my heart rise above?
01-31-2016, 02:12 PM
I've been known for my hate, but I'm a dealer of simple choices; for me it's never too late. please tag me
02-04-2016, 01:01 PM
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love? Left alone with the Dauntless, I find that I once more am in the care of "family." The word's meaning falters now, has less strength each time I think of it. Does ever family love so carelessly as mine, or are there others with more heart and soul than rests in my father alone? And what of Manhattan, she who showed me the most love, who taught me the very patterns of breath and speech that I have since renounced? She loved me more than anyone, and yet in some ways she was not family. She was only a friend, the family I chose that belonged to my father. My father who did not deserve her, did not love her as I did, did not-- I cannot think such thoughts. My uncle, the Dauntless, is speaking in a low voice, a humming, grumbling, roaring sort of drone that commands respect. I listen absently as he grooms me, as if we were close, as if he is the mother I now have lost. From where does this intimacy grow? Are these seeds of kindness sown at birth, into soil made fertile by affection or obligation? When do they flower, when do they wilt? What comes of the fruit and the grain, are they ground and spread like wealth to the needy, is this the cycle of love my father has never understood? And what of the seeds, is there a store in my own heart? I have no words for his kindness, only a soft chuff of air leaving my lips and striking the cold. His dog, unlike Manhattan but brimming with a recognizable emotion, draws closer. It is she that I have heart for, she that I would wish to speak with. What did she know of the dog that was my best friend, what did she love of the family she chose? I take a small step forward, bend to the malamute with russet and snow fur. My nose seeks her neck, my breath ruffles and parts whatever fur might be closest. My jaw, like a swing, unhinges and closes, a tender bite like the ones Manhattan gave me when I was younger. Will she know what I mean, when I say this with my silence? Will she understand the question of love and pain as an inextricable pair? Or am I truly alone in this world? "" Can the child within my heart rise above? @Archibald | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
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