me and my shadow, we were living as one
Adulthood suits him.
So does loneliness.
Perhaps it is because of the way everything beautiful withers beneath his molten step. Perhaps it is because of the summer storms that trail him, lighting up the sky above him in a view of barely pent up violence. Perhaps it is the unseeing way that his gaze catches people, the disconcerting way that he holds them there and does not blink, does not waiver, does not look away. Or perhaps it is simply the consequence of his roaming heart, a thunderstorm that is constantly moving onto the next plain.
Either way, Drakon grows up mostly alone, save for the occasional reprieve with his twin. He haunts the parts of Beqanna that grow the hottest if only because it is less exhausting to simply be in those circumstances. Today though he shifts away from these corners and he comes into the meadow. His charred body moves amongst the brittle winter flowers, and he smells ash beneath him as they smoke.
The sky above him is pregnant with promise but he does not unleash the rain and the thunder.
He does not rain down upon the wintery meadow with all that he can.
Instead he feels the kiss of winter and lets himself soak in the discomfort. He pulls back his own powers so that summer does not bloom around him and instead the cold air carries on. It hurts to live like this. It aches to withhold his heat and he feels himself weaken beneath the wintery gusts, but there is pleasure in the pain, and he throws back his wide-jawed head and grits his teeth, forcing himself to feel that pain.
Forcing himself to live in the cold that he normally shuns.
If his body smokes in protest. If the flames crackle weakly into life. If the cracks in his body hiss.
If they do, he does not notice.
every day I tried to fight it, but my demons always won