| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 6 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.1 :: 5 ( TALLSUN ) HP: 61 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: None
kels |
 when you lose yourself i'll be right beside you |
He hadn’t followed you from bedlam, hadn’t followed through the dead meadow dusted with white (her tomb), the mountains, to the valley nestled underneath it all, hadn’t followed you home. He hadn’t followed, and something inside of you aches terribly at the thought that you had lost him in your denial, in his anger for the hundreth time. There had been no waited sense of relief as you made your way slowly to the top of the incline, past memories of devilry, as the narrow pass opened to the snow-laden Basin, only a hopelessness that reached deep inside of your weary, worn soul.
Even now, as you walk the same paths, distinct in their familiarity despite the snow, despite the cold, despite the heaviness in your legs, your mind, your heart, there is no comfort. Even the lake in its constant stillness seems to shift, to change into something colder, as you look out at it, slivers of you hoping for the untouchable silhouette of a dumb boy with more courage than sense and his little fox, knowing that they won’t be there, knowing that it is because of you that they aren’t.
You turn away, winding past the panes of glass erected for the greenhouse, a reminder of your failures within the months of self-indulgence, and you only sink deeper into yourself, too tired, too defeated to truly care in this moment.
It is the sight of steam in the near distance that pushes a sigh from you, your sore, numbing body tingling with a dull anticipation for something other than the biting wind and chill or the hard stone waiting for you in your little cavern nestled within the trees. Unceremoniously you fall into the blistering warmth, ignoring the screaming of your skin in the face of the sudden change in temperature, ignore the stinging of your bruises, the open wounds along your mangled sides.
Only now, with your weight suspended within the water, too weak to hold in a sorrow you didn’t know you’d been clutching to, do you begin to sob quietly into the calm solitude of the winter that surrounds you.
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image credits
SHITTASTIC SHITNESSSS AWAY~
@Erebos ♥
please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death
| Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE |
|
Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions
& Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch
Heather |
Erebos didn’t return to the Basin until some hours later, anger, fury, and enmity bit down into his enduring vessel after too many moments spent analyzing, threatening, and pursuing a monster with no name. Abhorrence still clung to him in edges, fringes, and cycles, slipping along his strides, embodying his core, keeping him warm by the flares of indignation as he strolled beneath rusted Sentinel gazes and towering ramparts. The prince’s features had fallen into their usual flare, a veneer of bright, buoyed exuberance, but the rest of his frame was tired, exhausted, mind fatigued by the quandaries, dilemmas, and convictions spread about before him. His eyes caught the shimmer of stars and midnight oils, and barely reflected them back, only raising his crown to bow at the nameless heathens no longer truly guarding their borders, before shuffling into winter’s void. The warrior enjoyed its forlorn, desolate silence for a change, didn’t hasten off to explore and bounce, leap and prance, amidst its haunting gallows, pretending naught was amiss, carrying pretense by pretense until the world drifted off again, down into its wicked lairs and consuming quandaries. The pair, for he was rarely without his sable fox, shuffled their way around curves of snow and patches of ice, sliding along into the eclipse of twilight veils and distortion, eager, fervent, ready to lay amidst their chosen cavern and sleep off the weariness, the wanton, hot, molten wrath settled into his essence, into his soul, trying to figure out how to not abandon morality when all he yearned to do, all he wished, craved, and desired, was to slay a nameless figure. Coiled and curled between the annals of iniquity and valor, and leaning further and further to the former with every passing instant, he ventured along the outskirts of several apertures, rocky walls indented and familiar, before crossing towards the same path he always took: towards the lake. Out of habit, he intended to wander amidst its contents and brood until slumber finally took hold of him, or forgo the heady, cumbersome weight on his shoulders, and clamber into his routine of practicing skirmishes, bloody sword fights, with indiscernible targets. One in particular stood out, but had no face, no title, no calling but the haunting lines and scars marring Enna’s figure –
Orsino grunted something over their connection as one of the youth’s daggers had dared to make an indent on the water’s surface. He stopped, hoof poised in mid-air, ceasing all movement except the twitching of his ears – because they caught the distinct sound of crying. He’d know the decibels, the struggle to keep them contained, quiet, so the rest of the empire, so the rest of the realm, couldn’t hear the touches of failure, the glimmering shards of weakness, of ineptitude. A frown sketched its way over his mouth, a shifting of his gaze from the lake to the hot springs, where the weeping resonance seemed to echo from the warm curls, and he considered what to do, how to act. Only when Orsino meandered closer, when Erebos had scarcely moved, and the kitsune had peeked and scoffed at who was lamenting, did the prince do anything other than stare into oblivion. Enna, the tiny cretin extended, saying naught more, leaving the soldier to contemplate his next actions.
The first temptation was to simply evade, escape, and twist away at all costs. The second was to console, but he wouldn’t know what to say, and was likely somewhat of a cause for the tears (the words exchanged had been harsh, unrelenting, and a bit of a loss for both of them). He grimaced, hesitating once or twice, torn in either direction, before sighing, ripping off the discomfort plaguing his senses, and meandered, slowly, towards the springs.
As he advanced, that gallant stare focused on the lacerations lacquered to her skin, the traces of damage above and below the surface, the unwinding bravery she must’ve shown in the face of such danger, and the feral, stupid way he’d acted because he’d just wanted to make it right. He still did. He still had every intention of finding and pursuing the beast who dared to harm her, who’d assailed her with no rhyme, no reason – but he wouldn’t tell her that now, not when she was close to splintering and breaking apart, not when she’d tried to convince him there were other ways (methods he couldn’t fathom, see, or understand). So the lad, the scion, the little blue fiend who only tried to reach out and touch the world, maneuvered in front of her, sidling and lowering himself to the ground, not touching her fragments, not eyeing her shards, and unfurled one guttural apology. “Sorry,” he stated, sad and aloof, half a lie hidden behind his teeth because he wasn’t entirely sure what to regret. He was sorry for a lot of things, and not all at once.
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image credits
- table by Niki -
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 6 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.1 :: 5 ( TALLSUN ) HP: 61 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: None
kels |
12-13-2016, 08:16 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-08-2017, 08:03 PM by Enna.)
when you lose yourself i'll be right beside you |
His movements echo in the darkness. You do not look up. His feet clip against the stone ridden of snow from the warmth of the springs, ringing nearly painfully in your ears, you do not look up. His weight shifts to the hard earth, he apologizes, and still you do not look up, afraid to see his eyes echoing the emptiness of the word, scared that he will look too and see the remnants of an anger that still smolders just under the surface of your skin.
Instead you simply look at everything besides him and nothing at all, trying to distract yourself (as if you could) from the need to forgive him for things you never saw as his fault in the first place, from the itch that began in your chest and has slowly spread through your body, the instinct to comfort him, to keep him from the parts of you that would make him mean what he said for throwing your beliefs, your attempts of protection (from himself, from everyone else, from the entire fucking world), back in your face without so much as considering them for even a moment; for leaving you because his anger (pride?) had meant too much more.
“Sorry,” you mumble finally (bitter in his absence, that only now has he decided to come to you, though you suppose you should be happy that he has come back at all), more to yourself than the boy of satin and ink, your brows furrowing as you blink the last of your tears away, not wanting for him to know, to see, though you are certain he already does. Your bitterness begins to wane with your tears, your desperate (stubborn) hurt from being abandoned (as you had abandoned him, refusing to give him the only things he's ever asked of you: a name, a face, the smell of pine and sea, only the chance to prove himself to you, as if he hasn't a thousand times over) dissipating in his company.
“I think I’ve done something terrible.”
Think because of all the things he had said about retaliation, punishment, and how it made sense as it echoed thoughts, feelings, that you have suppressed for too, too long; think because there is still a smothering doubt within your tender heart, bound with too many morals, think because of the way it made you feel to make him bleed for everything he tried to take from you. Think because, for all you know, he could have died somewhere, alone, and no one would know. Your face scrunches as another wave of tears presses hotly against your skin and you turn from him further, hiding your shame, your hurt, until your lips rest against the edge of the pool near to your chest.
“Erebos,” it is as soft as ever as you breathe his name, as strangled as your voice is among the words, the confessions, that hang heavy on your tongue, the lump uncomfortably wedged within your throat. But nothing else comes. How can it? How do you tell someone of the things that you’ve seen in the span of only minutes dragged into hours, days, along your skull, through every dream, every breath a reminder of a man’s greed and your carelessness, of everything you almost lost? How do you make them understand?
You sit in silence for seconds, moments punctuated by the dripping of water along the walls, the quiet of his breaths next to the subtly choked sound of yours. You cannot help but to remember the things that he has seen, how it must have felt to think history was only repeating itself and that he had lost someone else when he had found you, and you sigh quietly, watching the tendrils of steam rise. Maybe he is the only one that would, even in his vengeful ways, the only one that could have a hope of burying the ocean of your (misguided) regret.
“I,” but you can’t.
You can’t, and so it only sits, only lingers, continuing to consume.
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image credits
@Erebos
please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death
| Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE |
|
Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions
& Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch
Heather |
She didn’t look at him, and he turned away too, losing himself in the folds of darkness and ice; clenching his enamel together in a frustrating, vexing crush. He said nothing at the last, sullen rush of her tears, or the rancor scraping at her throat as she murmured her own apology (and the boy was uncertain if she was just languishing it to him, reflecting it back to his intangible, false regrets; perhaps she knew how many lies he was made of, how many miniscule schemes and tangents molded a cunning cretin). The prince was only brought back to her form, curled and coiled in the steam, in the depths of the springs, by the slide of her next words – incapable of hiding the trace of his Cheshire grin. I think I’ve done something terrible. He wanted to laugh, to chuckle, to roll along the ground in sweeping waves of silliness, of mischief, because never had he ever been concerned, perturbed, or distressed by the lengths of her terribleness. “That’s never bothered me before,” he pressed into the slide of midnight and oils, a calculating smirk eclipsing over the youthful glow of his features. He instantly yearned to know what she’d done – because he liked her realm of menacing, vexing things, when they played parts, sketched, scripted, intrigues and follies, a few mercurial endeavors that cost them newcomers and wanderers but left them in stitches. It had been what first drove him to her – scaling along walls of silliness and perils, a sense of jeopardy and danger, omens and joviality, a minor disobedience and nefariousness lending them amusement and diversions. She had snickered when he joked, she’d been just as allured by the fringes of darkness and the shimmer of shadows; she’d been entertained when they’d forged follies in the heart of ghouls and goblins. Together they’d ensued a mass of tyranny in the form of nonsense and devilry, and later, when he grew stronger, mightier, a varnished glow of tenaciousness and audacity, the harsh, unrelenting need to plunge into roguishness failed to cease. Some days he called himself another name – gave strangers a calling from his lineage, like blistering, emboldened Ignatius, or dark, forbidding Belial, and other moments he chased after other youths with Orsino, uttered terrifying commands and watched as the world was altered before them, sceneries and surroundings changing from dreams to nightmares (and all he’d done was laugh).
Erebos almost told her of those great triumphs, those dastardly instances she hadn’t seen just so she’d chuckle too, so they could forgive, and so they could forget (except he wouldn’t – he wouldn’t ever fail to remember her lying on the cave floor, covered in blood). The prince’s lip parted, tongue wagging to impart some great, grand tale she could either believe or roll her eyes at, when the soft, dulcet utterance of his name caused him to shut his jaws completely. He thought she was going to tell him, reveal the secret, the furtive wails of her acrimony, but moments passed, spiraling one after another, leaving him with only an arched brow and smile yielding to a blank canvas, a slightly bewildered stare. Maybe she’d ceased merely to tease, to torment, but gazing at her still form, at the punctured air slowly shifting around them, the youth took back such sentiments. Was she afraid to reveal whatever horrific occasion she’d caused? Was she apprehensive that he would condemn her, become judge, jury, and executioner beneath the chilling winds and the vicious truths? He hoped not – not after all the things he’d done and intended to do. The prince wouldn’t play the hypocrite’s fiddle, the dance of some pious martyr, or the role of a sanctimonious fool; he’d made mistakes, committed errors, often on purpose. Whatever Enna had done, whatever wrong she’d felt she’d made, he’d remain gallantly on her side; a valorous knight to those he cherished. “What did you do?” He asked on a chord of resilience, firm and strong, unyielding and resolute, not soft, not light, not airy and fragile, as if scared or frightened to hear the tale. He’d be the same as he always was, and perhaps she could find comfort in the foolish, stalwart heart of a devilish youth.
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image credits
- table by Niki -
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 6 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.1 :: 5 ( TALLSUN ) HP: 61 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: None
kels |
12-23-2016, 08:50 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-23-2016, 08:51 PM by Enna.)
when you lose yourself i'll be right beside you |
'That's never bothered me before.'
Before you can stop yourself a devilish smirk, laughter meant for only him to hear for all those things that the two of you have done leaving too many bad taste on others tongues (not that either of you have ever cared, ever given it more than a half-satisfied thought), the misadventures and the silly arguments in between, the hurtful things that the both of you have and will likely always say, that you will always forgive him for, bursts from you despite the weight of the world on your chest, the frustrations laced with feverish desire, promises, ideas of gallantry on his.
And still you sober in seconds, shaking your head just once as your smile fades. “Don't be silly, it isn't that.” It was never about how he would take it, about whether or not he would reject you or see you in a different light; your faith in him, in the unshakable loyalty to his friends is too strong to question him with any level of seriousness outside of the self-doubting pieces of yourself always telling you you're never good enough, that you do not deserve (for what have you done?). It was never about that, because he could set fire to the entire world and you would watch it burn, loving him all the same as you do now. Because you know that at least part of him will be happy for what you've done.
It is only your guilt, the stupid fear that saying it aloud will make it real, will make it more of a reality than it already is to you. That there should be consequences for monsters, and a monster is what you feel you are. 'What did you do?'
You turn to look at him over your shoulder and from the corner of your eye for just a moment, not entirely surprised by the way he looks at you, offering you a strength you didn't know you needed. “I hurt him.” It comes as an utterance, a rush of breath as your lungs painfully deflate, your eyes closing against the blur of memories. “I hurt him, trying to get away. He was over me, touching me, and I—” Your body trembles along your spine, along the sunken flesh of teeth marks, the torn sinew from when you had fallen underneath his seemingly immense weight.
“I could smell his blood, and when I looked up his face was just in pieces.” Even for you in all that you've seen as a Mender, as someone who fought with others against gods and tended to them in the aftermath, who has seen things die when they were too far gone to save, it had been a shock. Perhaps it is because that destruction had been left in your wake.
“When he turned from me, left me, he could hardly even walk, he’d lost so much...” so much of his blood, so much of his strength, of his coward's pride. You breathe quietly for moments, your heart tormented by the possibility that he'd lost too much to survive, that, if he couldn't help himself he wouldn't find someone who could in time when you had had the ability all along. That he could have perished by now, all because you valued yourself, your safety, over him and his. “You ask me to let you give him what he deserves, but what if he’s already dead? What if I killed him?”
It is only a murmur as you once again angle your face away from him so that he may not see—only feel—your shame. You hope, in the differences between you, that he can understand that you are not made for violence, that he can grasp the way all of these what ifs wound you so deeply, even if not why when he has pursued a physical, real sense of justice from the moment a brute took a piece of him when he had murdered his child friend.
“I know I should be angry, that I should want for someone like him to be gone, maybe I do, but it’s all I can think about.” A quiet confession, one that knocks stones from your heart and into your churning stomach.
“I didn’t even look for him.” To help, to laugh or cry—you do not know what you would have done.
And it haunts you so.
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@Erebos
please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death
| Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE |
|
Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions
& Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch
Heather |
The sharp crack of her laughter, so minute, so fragmented, was enough to render his devilish smirk into a genuine, boyish, tender smile: without the rogue filaments, without the acrimony sliding behind its enigmatic pretenses. He listened, leaning in closer, all charm and capriciousness, ears tugging forward as she told him not to be silly (and he nearly wished he could always be in such a figure, dashing and humorous, instead of tugged and pulled into the denizens of contempt and rage). But the moment was dashed soon after, quick, swift, keen, a blunt force slammed against his skull, not even allowing him time to mourn the loss of her amusement before she confessed to her sins. The prince was silent amidst her outpouring of grief and calamity, as her body twisted into shudders, as her frame seemed to serve each and every reminder of assaults and sieges she didn’t deserve. Despite his stoic, calm exterior, inside the boy boiled – an abomination, a ruin, dredged back up again from the surface of hatred and wrath – a loathing for her perils, for her trials, for her tribulations, and a justified abhorrence for a man who’d earned every chunk she’d taken from his flesh. His muscles ached and his mind schemed, rolling, remembering every inch of soil he’d covered and coveted once she’d escaped from the cave, once he’d scoured the cave’s aperture, the meadows, the thistles that glistened like thorns. Had the beast been nearby he would’ve consumed him entirely, only snickered, only laughed, as he was rendered into tiny fragments of bone and blood. It was madness, it was hatred, it was steady, resolute defiance and sedition towards those who believed they could do anything and everything to any soul they came across – wound, strike, shoot them down with feral ease and restless havoc, creating horrors and atrocities for no reason at all. They showed no remorse. They felt no guilt. Erebos couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t fathom the notion, and couldn’t see that his schemes headed there as well, down the rubbled path of annihilation and devastation (but for vengeance, for revenge; it had a purpose, no matter how disastrous, savage, and unrelenting).
But to Enna, who served as a Time Mender, who spent every waking moment believing in assuaging, in soothing, in healing the broken, the beaten, and the damned, perhaps it’d been a sacrilege. Was it blasphemous? Was it irreverent? Was she so rattled by the slashing of her creed, that she believed she was warranted all of these woes, all of these trials? He took a moment, a quiet, careful instance, to draw, sketch, and align his features into a composed wall (forgoing the seething, atrocious mess he’d become), a mighty fortress, an entanglement of strength and might, glancing at her, eyes bold, crown extended, leaning towards her with nothing but truth, no lies, no pretenses, no falsehoods, on his tongue. “It’s not a crime to defend yourself.” He was proud of her for attacking, for assaulting, for laying a siege down upon an enemy that surely would’ve tried to kill her had she not fought with teeth and daggers, with wit and sedition – he was just disheartened that he hadn’t been there in time, pushing his sword into the fool’s chest, stomping on his skull until it broke, shattered, crumbled into bits of dust and nothingness.
The scion’s next set of words were a bit more nonchalant, a bit more apathetic, indifferent to the adversary who’d scorned his friend – it nearly sounded like his father, cloaked in insouciance, riddled with defiance. “And what if he’d died? His own treachery put him there. No one made him attack you. No one said you should stand by and let him tear you apart.” But his gaze still remained entirely on her (trying not to focus on the pieces of her story where the vile heathen had touched her, had scarred her, had marked her – because if he thought about it any more he may have imploded). It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, and he’d already promised he’d amend it somehow. He’d try again, find the man, and burn him straight to the ground, leave him for the crows to pick at, for the sun to bleach dry, for the rains to wash away. “So I’m glad you left him in pieces. It meant you survived.” And if he didn’t – so what? Erebos nodded at Orsino’s quiet, unsaid reverie – tried not to pout at the notion that they’d lose an opportunity to destroy an enemy.
At her last phrase though, he lapsed back into silence. The soldier considered not telling her what he’d done, shoving it off to the side for another play, another act, another stage he’d yet to entirely set. Another lie or pretense would leave them in more sour situations, additional melancholy and acidity he intended to avoid. He glanced off to the side for a moment, wrinkling his nose as he mulled over his decision, before ultimately staring back at her again, voice dragged in heathen foolishness, knowing a lecture would soon be forthcoming. “I did.” He shrugged then, pretended as if it’d been nothing at all, when he’d scoured the area for a length of time, attempting to avoid the Laurelin, scrambling to find a bloody thistle or some remnant of a stranger evading, escaping, the scene of his crime. “He wasn’t around,” settled on his final string of words, on the arch to his brow, on the ready insurrection brewing across his youthful face.
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image credits
- table by Niki -
@Enna
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 6 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.1 :: 5 ( TALLSUN ) HP: 61 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: None
kels |
01-08-2017, 08:15 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-08-2017, 08:15 PM by Enna.)
when you lose yourself i'll be right beside you |
'It's not a crime to defend yourself.' He begins, and you shake your head, leaning almost eagerly towards his touch. "That's what I have told myself, that it is alright because it was out of necessity, and still I feel so entirely... empty. My whole life has been about helping, healing, fixing those that can or cannot help themselves, even when I don't want to, when it feels wrong and even when they have brought it on themselves." You pause, thinking once more of a boy you had found defeated in the rain, pursuing dangers that he couldn't overcome to prove himself to those that already believed in him. "All of it I have seen the damage and the aftermath of violence and silently condemned those that have caused suffering, in flesh and in emotional turmoil, when there is almost always another answer, a better solution though it may not be easier."
You wonder if he will think of himself, if he will doubt the love that has lived in your heart from the moment you began to know him and you reach out, too, positioning yourself carefully within the water to press your nose to the skinny width of his chest, closing your eyes as you smile briefly. You do not, and don't believe you ever will, agree with his tendency towards violence, towards revenge and malevolence however right he may think it is, but you will always forgive him, always eventually see only the reasons behind and not the destruction left in his wake.
It is this awareness of your own blindness in the face of his wrongs that makes you heartsick to think of, to acknowledge; that makes you want to keep him from it in the first place all the more, before you are too used to and accepting of the wicked things he's always claimed he'll do, that makes you even more determined to save him from falling in to the same pit that has sucked you in from the moment what you may have done has dawned on you. From feeling as if his world is slowly closing in around him and knowing that eventually he will no longer be able to run from it. From throwing pieces of himself away until there is nothing left because someone that meant something to him needed him, because there will always be some monster that deserves to pay.
"I have always chose the second, believing it is not my place to deliver punishment, to choose who lives or dies. Except when it came to defending my son from the fiend that had found his way in here, pursuing god knows what. Words would not have moved him. Except this man, and I fear I went too far."
'So I'm glad you left him in pieces. It meant you survived.' It washes over you, the comprehension of how he can find pride in the terrible thing you've done just out of your grasp, your own pride locked away and buried, too strange, too painful to come to terms with just yet.
"I could have run." You had tried, but it had been half-hearted, thwarted by the walls that you had to climb with a man who would have pulled you down, pinned you there, trapped in a room you had gone only to lay memories to rest. "I could have let him..." but you do not finish, remembering what it had been like to simply give in, knowing that it may not have stopped him from trying to flay you anyways. Knowing that it is pure foolishness that makes you even think such a thing. "I could have..." but there is nothing left. You sigh heavily against his skin in defeat, dragging your lips across the muscles of his shoulder in idle thought.
"And maybe there was nothing else I could have done."
There is a but that does not make it right that hangs on your tongue though you do not say it, too exhausted in hearing your own self hatred to share any more with him.
'I did.' You are unsure if it is his confession or the nonchalance of it all in the tone of his voice, the shrug of his shoulders, the implications that could come, but you feel your body go rigid, your heart twisting painfully as it skips a beat. 'I did,' he says, and you tear from him, a sense of betrayal and ridicule pushing your brows together, your lips into a thinly lined frown. And yet you are not even surprised with the fact that he had, maybe you had expected it to some degree, but to hear it come from him—it sets your blood on fire.
"You did." It is flat, a statement more than a question as lines of incredulous disbelief crinkle along your face, as your heart fills with a sore and angry hurt, clawing deep within your soul. You had (foolishly) trusted him to honor your wishes, as you have always tried to do with his, to focus his intents elsewhere beyond the reaches of your own tragedies, your own monsters and demons, so that at least it would not be because of you and your incapability that he would risk his safety, erode his soul for, as if words and wishes would be enough to stop him.
'He wasn't around.'
Your anger seethes just beneath the surface, volitile and scalding as it pulses across your heart, searing away the layers of emotion until there is nothing left except the quiet hiss of its fury snaking through tangled veins. You simply sit, your face turned slightly away once more, afraid that looking at him and seeing the indifference laying there would burst you to flames. There are a million different i told yous and black words that stick to your tongue, heavy and hot like the rest of you, and yet you only grit your teeth together, as (unknowingly) unwilling as him to start another set of arguments, made to bear more verbal assaults and misunderstandings that would only lead to more distance between you when you know that is not what either of you need. And so you wait, wait until the self-soothing sea washes over the embers, makes you numb against the sudden chill in your soul.
Why? you want to ask, though you know the reasons and what would have come next if he had found him. Why, when he should have come with you, back to the Basin so that neither of you would have had to worry. And, rather selfishly, why finding him had been chosen over your safety. The sound of a laugh is expelled as you breathe, your heart closing itself away from the thoughts, that same sick sense of betrayal. "Do you promise?"
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|
@Erebos
please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death
| Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE |
|
Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions
& Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch
Heather |
Even as she spoke of her ways, of her creeds, of all the oaths gathered behind her unrelenting stature, he could feel the rebuttal bursting through his lungs. The prince couldn’t understand any other way. He couldn’t comprehend any other option. There was always justice and revenge poised across his tongue, sizzling and intrepid, undaunted and fearless, indifferent towards the eventual maiming he’d possess in the wake of administering another’s retaliation. The healer must’ve known, must’ve felt, must’ve read into his thoughts, because no sooner had his chest tightened, had the fury in his bones reignited, had the fiendish heart pulsed with an eerie, enigmatic madness, she was there, lips stretched over his shoulder, along his chest. The little beast wondered if she could feel the madness, the calamity, the rash, blunt, avaricious actions stored between his muscles, the coiled bedlam yearning to stretch, to thrash, to pulse with wicked ease, the need for glory, for punishment, for a ferocious touch of annihilation. Every time she spoke, every word she uttered, just leant more fuel for the fire, more wretched hatred for a soul he’d never met, incised and incensed, plagued primordial intentions and rancorous irreverence. Even the somber shades (I could have let him) left naught but a destructive grace locked in his mind – the images of a monster driven from his keep, tossed down cliff sides and ramparts, blown to bits and pieces, left for scavengers, given naught but an empty funeral, no one left to mourn the collection of ash at his feet. He couldn’t fathom her martyr claims, the way she should’ve just fled or laid down to bear a cretin’s wrath, and wanted to defy all the notions she concocted, clenching his jaw, biting his tongue, trying to regain clarity when all he wanted to do was yell. His mother’s calm poise must have reined him in for a few moments, because he lowered his chin so it rested along the top of her ears, breathing deeply, releasing the toxins, the venom, stored across his lips, quiet, but pressing. “So you just want him to get away with it.” It was such nonsense that he scarcely believed it’d come from his mouth (and surely he wouldn’t abide by it anyway – the savagery was already promised, and the harsh resolutions bid an ominous shadow over his horizons – he welcomed them like a fiend, like a wraith, like a piece of mayhem and ruin).
Then she pulled away – and so it seemed to be the way with them, a constant battle between who fell and who reached and who dared to pull the other out of oblivion, and by the flatness of her tongue he knew he’d blundered again. His features rendered back into a still reticence, brows not daring to furrow, eyes failing to narrow, just watching, studying, trying to find the place where he’d erred. He felt Orsino roll his foxy gaze somewhere in the distance, but failed to see the noose, the trap, she’d set. She turned away and he merely stared, toying with the implication that he should apologize again (for what?), but the phrase didn’t simmer over his throat, and he stewed in silence. Her resulting laugh was almost empty, held and fostered by all the complexities he couldn’t fully apprehend (just like all the other endless sentiments she bore – why she bothered to think of herself as the cruel beast when she’d been the one assaulted), and the boy let it fold back upon him like a hollowed shell, cracking his edges in two. “What am I supposed to promise?” Because he knew there was something deeper there, something she wanted but couldn’t ask of him (maybe she knew he’d do it anyway, no matter what blood oath she craved, no matter if she believed he should stay there, safe in the confines of ice and rime). Perhaps it was here that they’d come to one more crossroad, and he’d lean precariously out of sight, down into the midst and mist of daggers and destruction, away from the well-tread path.
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image credits
- table by Niki -
@Enna
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 6 | def: 9.5 | dam: 4 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 14.1 :: 5 ( TALLSUN ) HP: 61 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Mehr :: Arctic Wolf :: None
kels |
when you lose yourself i'll be right beside you |
"No." There is an argument there that you stifle as always, tired of repeating yourself, knowing that saying it again will only add to the pooled frustrations between the two of you. He hadn't just gotten away with it—you had fought, torn his flesh and made him bleed—worried all this time that he had fallen to decay, a man lost within wilderness, within anguish, to the corners and cobwebs of the minds that had known him. He had not just gotten away with it, and neither had you. You are quiet in your rebellion of his beliefs, his promises of violence, of a come-to-jesus moment that will never happen for the sad excuse of a man tangled in all of his black desires, quiet in your relief (he wasn't around), a relief that is smothered by the complacency of his stare, your heart still bent against the absolution that he proffers.
"I just..." don't want to see you hurt the way I am, don't want to see the way the things you'll do will change you. You almost want to say it again, and again and again until he understands that there is more than revenge, that there are things worth being here for when he is consumed with vengeance, rage, promises of carnage and justice. Almost, but your lips only press together tighter, a part of you certain that it would only drive him away when these things have never been up to you, when he has grown harboring such a need for retaliation for too, too long to change with sentiments and words so quickly. You cannot help but think of your boy with sand skin and seaglass eyes, all of his anger towards you for keeping him too close, for protecting him too much, for thinking you know what's best when all he has wanted is everything else, and how it has driven him away, fractured the relationship between the two of you.
You cannot help but think of the man that had fathered him, to think of the way that his answer to everything had been violence, revenge, and how it had once (when you were too young to realize) pulled you to him. It had been different then; different because he had never chased your ghosts or the breath of fear in your dreams. Different because you had never seen him fall, too tired, too weak, to stand again (wounded, bleeding, burned, but never so defeated). It had always been for selfish things, prideful things, and though something in your stomach twists, because it truly isn't any better of a thing to fight for, the conviction within the boy before you frightens you more than a man's skewed intentions ever had.
"Worry about you."
You relent for now with just a whisper, your resolve just a burning weight within your chest.
'What am I supposed to promise?'
Only a deep breath is your response at first, glancing at his face before your head tilts downwards to watch the ripples move along the surface of the water from your body to distract yourself from the accusations that lay heavy on your tongue, dissolving so very slowly in the honesty you swore you saw composed somewhere along the fault lines of confusion and anger within him. You wonder if he would have even asked if it was untrue, if he would have told you (I did, he wasn't around,) in the first place if it was only to be a lie. Wonder if it would even be worth it to voice your concern, to have him promise with words he has already given, promise once more about crimes he hasn't committed. (No.)
And so you shift, ignoring as best you can the soreness of your tired body, your bruised muscles and once-broken things still mending, folding yourself along different sentiments entirely. "I don't want you to feel like you have to hide things from me." You begin, watching him from the corner of your eye, hoping only that it does not upset him, does not open more wounds between the two of you. "Even if you don't think I'll understand—maybe I won't—but I don't want to lose you, don't want things to change, because of a maybe."
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@Erebos
please tag enna in every post
violence permitted barring permanent injury / death
| Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE |
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Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions
& Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch
Heather |
The quarrel brewed, stirred, incensed, twisted against his throat – he felt it itch, rasp, and claw its way down his vocals, between his clenched ivories, along the length of his stubborn, audacious jaw. His prediction had been correct, the foreboding astute – because there was more laced in their argument than that of a beastly serpent who was going to pay for his actions. She’d been worried, but for him, and it sounded so stupid, so painful, so irritating, echoing through his ears, drumming along his heart, resounding, reverberating, settling as a knife within his chest. He rarely fretted about his own well being; the boy was selfish at times, greedy beyond all reason in some measures, grasping and ripping and tearing at things he couldn’t have but still craved, still yearned for, still desired, but the moments he’d ever been tethered into anxiety and apprehension had been for another’s sake. He’d furrowed his brow, sobbed, and wept when he thought she was dead. He’d screamed and promised when he knew Arwen had been bludgeoned to a certain death. He’d vowed to bring down the heavens when false Gods brutalized friends. He’d rushed headlong into battle for the sole purpose of ensuring someone else made it out alive. His figure had never been a thought. His safety had never struck a chord. His wellbeing had never been brought into question – he took his warrior prowess and sewed it directly into the parts of him that were still courageous, still enduring, still strong. Perhaps she thought so little of him, because she’d seen the boy at his worst, crumbled and broken, brought down by brethren in monster’s clothing, seething, tormented, brittle, incapable of doing anything other than swallowing, gulping for air. Maybe she pictured him as that ineffectual babe, floundering around, pretending wolves had been the culprit when all along it’d been his own foolishness, his own bravado. She might have seen it written somewhere, along the walls, in an oracle’s canvas, the story of how the prince with all his might, with his ridiculous valor, had been brought down by his own pathetic inabilities. It distorted his sights, caused his gaze to narrow, to burn, for his mouth to sizzle and sear, and he had to look elsewhere again, off into the shadows, off into the dusk, trying desperately not to fracture or yell.
But in his heart, truly, he knew none of those were the case. Enna wouldn’t do that to him, wouldn’t think less of him for stumbling and falling – but he wished, desperately, that she’d believe him capable of destroying her demons for her.
The scion wanted to tell her not to bother. He wanted to say don’t, like it was a simple task, like it was a burden easily passed aside for something else. He understood the notion was insipid and meaningless; he’d worry about her just as much as she’d worry about him. They could ignore and rebuff one another so hastily, so easily, but none of it would stick.
So he simply nodded, pretended he comprehended her divulgence, because anything else would come out bitter or rancorous, acrid and harsh, unrelenting and persistent, and he was tired of ruining things. It was one of his greatest strengths, after all, to be granted such grand gestures and leave them wilting, withering, dying, decayed.
The youth rose thereafter, prepared to leave, to depart, before he could muddle anything further, so she’d have time to heal and he’d have time to think, plot, scheme, rile Machiavellian wiles until he finally found sleep. Her final words, nothing more than whispers, like china, like glass, gave him pause, caused his skull to swivel once more in her direction, for those intrepid, brazen eyes to fold back on hers. He didn’t know how many of his lies she’d seen, how many she imagined, how many she believed rested there, brooding on his shoulders, on his brow, carved into his muscles and slate; but he tilted his head, pretending, feigning innocence, as if he had no notion of all these half-truths and falsehoods pervading his entity. She’d smack him if she knew, he was certain, how much he wanted to craft pretenses instead of honor veracity; but his candor had been upheld thus far, authentic, honest, burdened by the burning notions of abhorrence and contempt. “I could say the same for you,” Erebos nodded, wondering how many hours she’d spent sculpting a way to not incense him, to not send him scurrying into the darkness, hunting down other monsters and demons, or if she thought about doing it now, hiding more than just pain and anguish; but to lose her too would be another disastrous chapter in his already fraying livelihood. He didn’t want that. “I’ll leave you to rest,” the prince obliged, granting her peace and comfort he was currently inadequate at bestowing, looming, backing away into the shadows to dwell on the hazardous sentiments coiled within his cranium; a crown of mismatched, misshapen thorns.
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image credits
- table by Niki -
@Enna
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