you used to tell me we'd turn into something
oh, you said life was much better than this
It had been weeks since Elio had last come to see his son. The dream-boy had grown and grown; and now he is a dream-man, striking and somehow taller than his father. At his forehead gleams a curved blade, half black and half gold. Stars trail him so faithfully, gold and crimson mix and mingle over strong, dream-fed muscles. He is old enough to be away from his father, now - far too old to remain nestled away like a baby bird too scared of flight.
But Lannister is jailed. In the sky he lives, his father's world the prison and others' dreams the bars holding his cell together. He can only live vicariously, can only recreate that which others offer him. No experience is truly his own. Occasionally he finds another universe, full of laughter and dancing and danger, but even those gifts are not his. Despite the good food he conjures, the warm beds he creates, Lannister rots and withers - his outward appearance no indications of the fields of wildflowers dying sweetly within him.
That festering, those pitiful, wilted petals - they weigh Lannister down. Bloom into something different, darker. The rot stirs when he grows angry, turns into some nearly twisted magic. He wants out.
The overwhelming sensation of power tingles and fireworks in Lannister's chest. He looks down, stormcloud eyes sparkling with anxiety and bewildered excitement. What was this feeling, this chaos? Where was his father to referee all the strange sensations he never learned about? A huff, short and mildly panicked, snorts from the back of his throat. "What is this?" Lan murmurs, then closes his eyes, leaning back on the clouds that held him so faithfully.
But there are no longer clouds, no - just an empty blackness. Around him stars glimmer and sparkle and when Lan blinks, that's all there is: endless darkness and minuscule stars illuminating absolutely nothing.
"H-hello?" he asks into the emptiness, voice echoing.
Heated by uncertainty, his anger boils.
