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01-19-2016, 03:12 AM
Nature's great masterpiece : an elephant ; the only harmless great thing.
She hissed, angry and empty words, advancing on him like a raptor rather than the beautiful passerine. He leaned backwards, weight awkwardly distributing on his wounded haunches— but he still held his ground in the face of her irate and irrational fury. He knew that their spar was not the source of her anger— he knew there were so many more layers beneath the icy exterior of his Queen. Her Addict, his betrayal, the abandonment of her children, the invasion of her home. It was this understanding that held his great columns of legs rooted to the spot, for he could see the pain glimmering with shards as sharp as the broken glass wall beneath all this outrage.
An ear swiveled to follow Edgar’s retreat, but the King’s widened, navy eyes do not dare leave the venom-spewing mare so close in front of him. His eyes watch hers, burning with fury. They stray to the red that warms her cheek as rage makes itself physically present in the flush of her snowy skin. There would be a raw beauty in this fervent display of untamed emotion, if not for the anguish at the root of it.
“I tried the other day, you know, to escape myself. And you stopped me…Those rocks need me much more than anyone else does.”
His eyes darkened as he interrupted her, “I would stop you again, Elsa,” his rumble was quiet, but firm, “This herd needs you more than those rocks. I need you. You are my Queen, my partner, the other half to this reign. I cannot do it without you, you just proved that by besting me in this spar,” a spar he never should have started, he inwardly cursed himself.
“I am incapable of feeling anymore…” His brows raise, “You are capable of feeling, look at yourself now. Someone ‘unfeeling’ would not be screaming at her King,” his head dropped as her voice cracked, head following hers as he thought she was going to pull away from him. But, instead, she painfully pushed against his chest, the power of her lithe form strong against his sore muscles. But, remembering both her avoidance of his touch and the hurried gentle caress she gave his cheek as and afterthought, he lowered his giant head to try and trap her against his broad chest. (Perhaps taking his life into his own hands, but he felt that this raging, angry woman needed to be held.)
“Elsa, do not ask me to do something I am incapable of. I will ‘be nice’ to you. And I did deserve this. We should have waited to spar, I should have known better…” his low voice faded as a grimace of shame crossed his masked features. “I’m sorry, my Queen. Forgive me?” the low murmur rumbled from his chest.
An ear swiveled to follow Edgar’s retreat, but the King’s widened, navy eyes do not dare leave the venom-spewing mare so close in front of him. His eyes watch hers, burning with fury. They stray to the red that warms her cheek as rage makes itself physically present in the flush of her snowy skin. There would be a raw beauty in this fervent display of untamed emotion, if not for the anguish at the root of it.
“I tried the other day, you know, to escape myself. And you stopped me…Those rocks need me much more than anyone else does.”
His eyes darkened as he interrupted her, “I would stop you again, Elsa,” his rumble was quiet, but firm, “This herd needs you more than those rocks. I need you. You are my Queen, my partner, the other half to this reign. I cannot do it without you, you just proved that by besting me in this spar,” a spar he never should have started, he inwardly cursed himself.
“I am incapable of feeling anymore…” His brows raise, “You are capable of feeling, look at yourself now. Someone ‘unfeeling’ would not be screaming at her King,” his head dropped as her voice cracked, head following hers as he thought she was going to pull away from him. But, instead, she painfully pushed against his chest, the power of her lithe form strong against his sore muscles. But, remembering both her avoidance of his touch and the hurried gentle caress she gave his cheek as and afterthought, he lowered his giant head to try and trap her against his broad chest. (Perhaps taking his life into his own hands, but he felt that this raging, angry woman needed to be held.)
“Elsa, do not ask me to do something I am incapable of. I will ‘be nice’ to you. And I did deserve this. We should have waited to spar, I should have known better…” his low voice faded as a grimace of shame crossed his masked features. “I’m sorry, my Queen. Forgive me?” the low murmur rumbled from his chest.
Tembovu
@Elsa EONS LATER, sorry I suck. I was struggle-busing this.
Please tag Tembovu.
