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07-06-2016, 01:07 PM
hellsparkle
He has been a ghost in his new home—a whisper sighing like a hushed breath through the church, while all prayers go unanswered.
No one sings at his altar anymore. No one can sing anymore, with their tongues choking across their throats and blood bubbling out with the breath that no longer makes it to their lungs. And as he glides on his long, narrow wings in the late morning sunlight, he pretends to himself that he does it because he has to, and not because he likes it. He tells himself, they grow too greedy, they demand too much, they act without sanction and they defile my name—but he knows it is lies, all of it. He knows another thing as well.
The monster has to sleep.
He is black, inside out, from the tip of his nose to his eyes to his heart. He is the perfect shadow, swallowing all light: but he finds no evil in his color, no inspiration for his savage heart in it. His color, simply is, and as he drifts upon the cool breezes above his home he admires the play of sunshine upon his feathers. What is life without a little narcissism? A smile tugs on his dark lips. He has seen it a thousand times before, on each sunny day, that play of iridescent greens and blues, and he still finds it beautiful.
His pet is less appreciative of beauty; she rolls her molten eyes and swats a scaled paw at his face as she darts past him. "You're just jealous, you ugly cur," he throws after her, the only creature to have drawn genuine affection from him.
Everyone has a weak spot; he doesn't want to call her such, doesn't want to admit what she has done for him, for his life, for the quality of his deeds. But she is what she is, his Achilles heel, his vulnerability. His heart, given flame and wings and a life of its own. A small, black body, covered in scales and fur, thin armor for the furnace burning within.
Such a strange, precious thing, his pet.
She rolls her eyes again, darting away to hunt. She likes their new home—it is full of lush hunting grounds, tall grasses with field mice, birds, and best of all: warm rocks to sun-bathe on. She's a lazy thing, his pet, she loves to soak up the sun, belly full of meat and bones and blood. And he—well, he supposes he likes their new home, too. It is pretty to look at, rainbows and waterfalls and brooks, little groves of trees, grass and sunlight. So far, so good. But what about the people? Aside from Cem, he has met no one, skulking back into the shadows and soothing the sinister purr rumbling in his soul. He needs a clean slate. He needs patience.
He needs to learn kindness, for he is supposed to repent now, and this time, he has chosen healing.
His title is "Caretaker", and they have spent many nights laughing about it, him and his pet. All alone, of course. But today, he decides as he lazily spirals towards the ground, today that changes. He has grown tired of isolation, tired of singing softly to himself in the shadows—he longs for pure, divine voices to twine together into hymns, he longs for the magic of a song strung together from many, many throats.
He longs for beauty other than his own.
Long wings bend gently as the summer grasses tickle his lowered hindfeet, winds stirred up from their powerful beats as he gracefully touches down. A last beat of his wings, and then, his forehooves drop the remaining inches, and all four feet are on the firm ground again. Hellsparkle blinks. The light is always different down here, the air warmer, and each time he falls from his kingdom in the sky it is with a pang of loss. Everything is so much clearer in the air.
A few more blinks, and his black eyes are glossy, calm. He folds his wings against his sides. The grass whispers, hush, hush, hush, as he strides through it towards the crystalline creek, and the mare next to it. She is his opposite yet his mirror image; where he is all dark, she is all light, detailed in fine, crisp blue. She is tall, like he is tall. They're both refined, she perhaps a tad more so, and as he stands upon the opposite bank and watches her it is like he sees the inverse of himself.
So where he is old, where he is wicked—is she young, and gentle?
"Hello," is all he says, voice smooth as silk.
[ @Adria ]
No one sings at his altar anymore. No one can sing anymore, with their tongues choking across their throats and blood bubbling out with the breath that no longer makes it to their lungs. And as he glides on his long, narrow wings in the late morning sunlight, he pretends to himself that he does it because he has to, and not because he likes it. He tells himself, they grow too greedy, they demand too much, they act without sanction and they defile my name—but he knows it is lies, all of it. He knows another thing as well.
The monster has to sleep.
He is black, inside out, from the tip of his nose to his eyes to his heart. He is the perfect shadow, swallowing all light: but he finds no evil in his color, no inspiration for his savage heart in it. His color, simply is, and as he drifts upon the cool breezes above his home he admires the play of sunshine upon his feathers. What is life without a little narcissism? A smile tugs on his dark lips. He has seen it a thousand times before, on each sunny day, that play of iridescent greens and blues, and he still finds it beautiful.
His pet is less appreciative of beauty; she rolls her molten eyes and swats a scaled paw at his face as she darts past him. "You're just jealous, you ugly cur," he throws after her, the only creature to have drawn genuine affection from him.
Everyone has a weak spot; he doesn't want to call her such, doesn't want to admit what she has done for him, for his life, for the quality of his deeds. But she is what she is, his Achilles heel, his vulnerability. His heart, given flame and wings and a life of its own. A small, black body, covered in scales and fur, thin armor for the furnace burning within.
Such a strange, precious thing, his pet.
She rolls her eyes again, darting away to hunt. She likes their new home—it is full of lush hunting grounds, tall grasses with field mice, birds, and best of all: warm rocks to sun-bathe on. She's a lazy thing, his pet, she loves to soak up the sun, belly full of meat and bones and blood. And he—well, he supposes he likes their new home, too. It is pretty to look at, rainbows and waterfalls and brooks, little groves of trees, grass and sunlight. So far, so good. But what about the people? Aside from Cem, he has met no one, skulking back into the shadows and soothing the sinister purr rumbling in his soul. He needs a clean slate. He needs patience.
He needs to learn kindness, for he is supposed to repent now, and this time, he has chosen healing.
His title is "Caretaker", and they have spent many nights laughing about it, him and his pet. All alone, of course. But today, he decides as he lazily spirals towards the ground, today that changes. He has grown tired of isolation, tired of singing softly to himself in the shadows—he longs for pure, divine voices to twine together into hymns, he longs for the magic of a song strung together from many, many throats.
He longs for beauty other than his own.
Long wings bend gently as the summer grasses tickle his lowered hindfeet, winds stirred up from their powerful beats as he gracefully touches down. A last beat of his wings, and then, his forehooves drop the remaining inches, and all four feet are on the firm ground again. Hellsparkle blinks. The light is always different down here, the air warmer, and each time he falls from his kingdom in the sky it is with a pang of loss. Everything is so much clearer in the air.
A few more blinks, and his black eyes are glossy, calm. He folds his wings against his sides. The grass whispers, hush, hush, hush, as he strides through it towards the crystalline creek, and the mare next to it. She is his opposite yet his mirror image; where he is all dark, she is all light, detailed in fine, crisp blue. She is tall, like he is tall. They're both refined, she perhaps a tad more so, and as he stands upon the opposite bank and watches her it is like he sees the inverse of himself.
So where he is old, where he is wicked—is she young, and gentle?
"Hello," is all he says, voice smooth as silk.
[ @Adria ]
