[private] pick your poison; live with remorse. || australis

[Offspring]

don't forget that this is a choice.
pick your poison; live with remorse.

   The gentle breeze presses against his marred flesh, soothing in the light caress that grazes over each individual puckered, pink scar that litters the length of his behemoth body. His breath is warm, unlike the frigid evening air that lingers in the still, quiet morning - but it does not even come close to what had once been. To what had once been his. Alas, the pale sunlight begins to infiltrate the dense foliage, bathing the darkness he had so easily blended into with its light, stirring his mind from the heavy brooding that had plagued him. His eyelids heavy with fatigue, his thick lashes shield his dark eyes of crimson from the intrusion, shying his broad cheek away as he delves deeper into the thicket.

   A low, long-held breath emerges from his tired lungs as he lumbers through the tightly knit pines, ignoring the way the drying, bare branches scratch at the surface of his hide. He is alone, festering in the acidity of old memories and wayward thoughts, longing for the touch of one (and her gentle touch and warm breath along the crest of his neck) but too troubled to seek her out. The nightmares had begun to return, no longer kept at bay by sleepless, weary nights, and each one left him unhinged. The scent of blood always lingered, heavy on his senses and metallic on his tongue, and his heart always threatened to detach and burst forth from his chest, pounding as he heaved, drenched in a sweat. 

   Her touch no longer soothed him, and it angered him deeply. Each and every night, he would drift again into a shallow slumber, lost in the memory of a pair of emerald eyes, drenched in the stench of waste and blood, embroiled in the blistering rage and the unbridled fury that had once engulfed him like the unforgiving flames he had been cursed with in the aftermath. The only salvation he could keep was when awake, when he was able to harness some semblance of control - but it left him exhausted, drained - and he knew how Isle ached at seeing him unravel. She knew of his anguish, and she had seen a part of his torment, but he could not let her see within. 

   He could not plague her with such suffering.
   A suffering he alone was meant to endure.

   Lost within his own thoughts once again, his breath hitches in his throat as he grows uneasy and still - his eyes linger along the delicate dappling of brown and white, which reminds him so suddenly of the lingering love that awaits him in the shadows of volcanic ash and steam. His heart clenches, knowing he is not where he belongs, and yet he cannot draw himself away. There is something too familiar about the rounded curve of the figure's neck, the delicate slope of her soft cheek and the way her chin and jaw seemed as if it has been painted in snow. 

   Though his heart still pounded, it warmed, drawing a tired smile to the corner of his whiskered mouth.

   "Australis," his voice echoes against the brittle bark and dried leaves that surround him. "my daughter. It has been a while." The ground rumbles slightly from the weight of his long, thick legs, which crush old, dried out leaves with each step. Though he reaches for her, he cannot say much more - a pang of guilt lingers, a reminder of the time wasted during her youth. She had grown from a stem to a beautiful blossom, hidden away from his eyes and he ached to know the time when she had been small, youthful and full of trembling enthrallment for the world around her.

   Again, he is reminded of time, of how it never ceases, never stops.

offspring