.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
09-03-2016, 10:55 PM
(This post was last modified: 09-03-2016, 11:08 PM by Thranduil.
Edit Reason: Forgot to add the last lines like an idiot.
)
|
Thranduil
It was small at first. A trifle compared to the lashings lacing his coat draining so much more from him. Yet as his voice wavered on the thin wisps of the breeze, it blooms awake against his chest. A fiery heat, pulsing with intensity, and piercing his chest. The gold echo’s a gasp as he looks down to the hawk soaring against his chest, finding it appearing no different, but feeling the heat scalding his skin. The confusion and wonder is lost though in the sound of a low growl and the click of hooves. The heat against his chest, was lost in the burning sensation of his own racing heart. His knees quiver, trembling with the last strings of strength, but more so, with the hesitation, trepidation, and the weight of this burden, born by love, fear, and agony. Flashes fly before him, of her changed. Her face unrecognizable in some foreign look. Or a new set of invisible clothes, covering her in a different stance or stature. It was his last grasp at straws. His last attempt to deny what was really there… A shadow moves in the cave, and his low head alerts, and rises. Earth eyes intense, yet calmed by his sedated wounded body. Yet he can not see her, her body hidden among the shadows. Perhaps he made this all up, and the mare he dreamed he lay beside this morning (before he woke his eyes to the icy truth) was never real. The actual sores and blemishes having been covered and masked by time and distance. Yet the shadow speaks. And the last straw falls away. For her voice cuts across him deeper than any wound he bore, and weighs heavier than all the burdens he so far bore. It trembles in the same. It hesitates the same. And it bears the same wounds in its dips, and hopes in its rises as his had. Then she steps forward, and his eyes are stricken in the same manner as his harks. She was the same, only more so. The same deep eyes and slender frame. The same tumbling white hairs, and the same soft rosen coat. And his cloak. Damn. She looked no different than the illusions had in his head for these weeks and months. Perhaps her sides were still swollen or worn from childbirth, or her shoulders sunken from her stress, but love rarely takes note of these things. Perhaps she stood lost among herself before him, with no clear choice of who she should be. But for the gold, her half hidden face, still shadowed by the cave, was a clear ringing bell. A silencer of his restless legs, and trembling knees. The voice had said go. Now it spoke a command of calm. Even simply standing in the presence of an image so long imagined, all his heart's faltering and racing was slowed and leveled. The hurricane of guilt, fear, and possibly even madness risen from the past, was cleared by simply looking upon her. His love. It was addicting. And though her glances and the moments moved on, his heart returning to his heightened pace soon after, it was not forgotten how deeply powerful that one moment had been. How strange and yet, from many years ago, how familiar it was. And scarily for his normal self, how easily and happily he fell into his grips. The moment is broken though, jerked awake by her glances and shifting mood. The hope dashing away from her tongue and eyes. The gold’s ears fall back slightly, confusion waking him from his trance. She steps closer, but her voice pulls her farther away. The crowned head tilts, the necklace at his chest hoovering between the scalding heat, yet dipping cold. Had it been any other moment, the sensation would be captivating, but like his wounds, they were so far from his thoughts. And so her words, drawing attention to them, find nothing but confusion, and settlement of the trance her figure had brought upon him. Yet she steps closer, her scent now wavering thickly with his, spiraling into him like a drug. And he wants to grab at it greedily. To draw her closer, to pull her in. As he had the night before in efforts to cheapen her touch, now he seeks the same to solidify that she was truly here, and this wasn’t some false image his mind still created for him. Some hallucination. Some madness. For so long he had been flirting with those dark hallways, and white rooms, he needed to be sure he wasn’t already there. If he was, his body perhaps could not take it. Her voice breaks again, and it sounds even further away. It shears away at him. Tearing from him, confusing him. She wears his robes. She answers his call in kind. Why does she step closer, and yet father away? What has happened? His voice is lighter in its confusion speaks in playfulness. Masking the deeper meanings. “Why do you always speak so much and yet so little?” Does she not see what she has caused? Does she not see the lines around his eyes, nor the long drawn stare? Did she not hear his voice waver, yet call her name with the final admittance? So deeply embedded in his chest had her love seeded, and so tall had it grown in the time of his turned eye that it seemed impossible she could miss it. “Their magic has no power over my worst wound.” His eyes narrow, questioning, yet hoping. His lips and voice cracking with the still terrifying realization that they would actually breathe life into such sentences. “Only you do.” Then he can resist no longer. His strength, hanging by threads, is failing, and he seeks the only source of continued strength he desires. In large glides he’s before her. His heavy head, weighted by his still red stained horns reaches like a child’s greedy hand to seek to grasp around her. To reach above her slender neck and hold him, yet also to pull her close. To feel her warm soft touch. (Perhaps to even feel the hot touch of her own medallion). To lean on her strength. To admit his weaknesses. To admit he did not want to bear them alone any longer. To drink in that sweet elixir of her scent. To cling to what his memories promised him that morning when he had woken without her. To bury himself in all she had promised to show him. He would need it, as a white ghost began to protest his thoughts. Arwen's memory, fearing more than he, what he was about to say, was cutting the last ties of his strength. Her fear, those burning gold eyes trembling, begging him away, matched every strength Hotaru gave with a crippling weakness. And he wasn't sure he could hold up through the fray. His trembling whisper, like an exhale of tortured man feeling the relief of death, shudders into the still morning air. “I love you, Hotaru.” It no longer could be denied, even by the liar and thief himself. "talk talk talk" OOC:: |
Hotaru
![[Image: 5381546acbe33]](http://images.helovia.net/index.php/view/5381546acbe33)
Feel free to use any force/magic on Thranduil, short of killing him.
Please tag in every post.
Ask Thranduil any question in the world, he'll be forced to answer on his profile. PM with your question.
