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07-03-2016, 12:00 PM
Is this all you can do?
His lips twitched, craving an explosion of laughter. The list of things he could do, would do, were endless and abundant, so much like the rolling, mercurial tide he stood upon. He could smile and lie, he could devastate and ruin, he could smirk and snicker and make notes of all the enemies he’d burn on his way to power and obliteration. He could hasten embers, infernos, through his skin, through his touch, and watch everything crumble, coil, and contort to ash around him. He could manifest control and composure, he could unleash demands and commands meant to contort, meant to unravel, meant to claw, crawl, and serpentine its way through minds; make them believe it was what they’d wanted all along. He could crumple under the weight of his vulnerabilities and flaws, then sail on the next current, hasten to the horizon, dash, intervene, and savage all the ways the earth wanted to refuse him. He could wish, hope, and dream brilliant aspirations and ambitions, then watch them fall, dim, become washed away when he cared far more than anyone else. He could request Orsino’s guidance, and drown the scenes, the surroundings, in mystique, wonder, and abominations, trick the eye, distort the frame, and punish those who ever thought to hurt the ones he cherished. He could watch his friends disappear, chase after them, wait for them to turn back; he could witness his mother through rain drops, he could study his father slowly decay around him, he could patrol the borders, the realm, the kingdoms for salvation and not take hold of it. He could love and not be loved back. He could hate and let it warp him – body and soul altered to suit his needs.
But he told the child none of these things – merely remained coasting on the rivulets and sea, embraced by the cold surf and the lonely ocean. The youth maneuvered slightly along the current, rippling across the brim to peek into the sanction and fathoms below, to spy on fish and tilt his head towards the lad, intrigued by markings, by potentials, by the unknown. The boy was confident too (definitely one of Volterra’s brood), as if he’d proven himself over and over again, as if his gangly, childish body had beaten down monsters and fiends, cretins and maelstroms. I can do many things, he’d said. The urge to laugh brewed inside him once more, and he had to swallow the notion instead of chuckle alongside gull cries and salty, sandy brine. Maybe he had magic, enchantments, and invocations too – the ability to vanquish and conquer bestial suits of armor, rampage into blackguards, become something other than one more name, one more face amongst a crowd of many. “Like what?” Erebos encouraged, an enveloping grin matching his query, piercing eyes riveted solely on the youth’s strange, pink ones, then following down the length of a blood spatter (like he’d already been in battle, scarred, mutilated, lacerated but victorious) upon his chest. Then, he looked away, trying not to laugh, lips pressed together in a wicked composition, the cat that ate the canary. The boy’s final words resounded, revolved, in his head again, and in perfected, noble quality, he answered. “No.”
His lips twitched, craving an explosion of laughter. The list of things he could do, would do, were endless and abundant, so much like the rolling, mercurial tide he stood upon. He could smile and lie, he could devastate and ruin, he could smirk and snicker and make notes of all the enemies he’d burn on his way to power and obliteration. He could hasten embers, infernos, through his skin, through his touch, and watch everything crumble, coil, and contort to ash around him. He could manifest control and composure, he could unleash demands and commands meant to contort, meant to unravel, meant to claw, crawl, and serpentine its way through minds; make them believe it was what they’d wanted all along. He could crumple under the weight of his vulnerabilities and flaws, then sail on the next current, hasten to the horizon, dash, intervene, and savage all the ways the earth wanted to refuse him. He could wish, hope, and dream brilliant aspirations and ambitions, then watch them fall, dim, become washed away when he cared far more than anyone else. He could request Orsino’s guidance, and drown the scenes, the surroundings, in mystique, wonder, and abominations, trick the eye, distort the frame, and punish those who ever thought to hurt the ones he cherished. He could watch his friends disappear, chase after them, wait for them to turn back; he could witness his mother through rain drops, he could study his father slowly decay around him, he could patrol the borders, the realm, the kingdoms for salvation and not take hold of it. He could love and not be loved back. He could hate and let it warp him – body and soul altered to suit his needs.
But he told the child none of these things – merely remained coasting on the rivulets and sea, embraced by the cold surf and the lonely ocean. The youth maneuvered slightly along the current, rippling across the brim to peek into the sanction and fathoms below, to spy on fish and tilt his head towards the lad, intrigued by markings, by potentials, by the unknown. The boy was confident too (definitely one of Volterra’s brood), as if he’d proven himself over and over again, as if his gangly, childish body had beaten down monsters and fiends, cretins and maelstroms. I can do many things, he’d said. The urge to laugh brewed inside him once more, and he had to swallow the notion instead of chuckle alongside gull cries and salty, sandy brine. Maybe he had magic, enchantments, and invocations too – the ability to vanquish and conquer bestial suits of armor, rampage into blackguards, become something other than one more name, one more face amongst a crowd of many. “Like what?” Erebos encouraged, an enveloping grin matching his query, piercing eyes riveted solely on the youth’s strange, pink ones, then following down the length of a blood spatter (like he’d already been in battle, scarred, mutilated, lacerated but victorious) upon his chest. Then, he looked away, trying not to laugh, lips pressed together in a wicked composition, the cat that ate the canary. The boy’s final words resounded, revolved, in his head again, and in perfected, noble quality, he answered. “No.”
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
@Kid
