09-28-2026, 06:27 PM
Knight
you're in the walls that I made with crosses and frames
He’s not a small thing, nor is the way he carried himself slight either. Knight penetrated the copse of pines as though he already knew the way.
In part, maybe he did know something of the wood, but the substance that he knew was knowledge passed on to him. Nothing he could touch, nothing he could hold his word against, but all the pieces remained just where they were left. Scattered in remnants of his Father, some gifted by his own Mother—of course she would give him these—and spoken, too, from the mouths of his older brothers. Days where the words smelled heavily of prestige, tall tales he came to assume because the spoiled speaker could stretch a story. Thus was the way of Ivo, because there was none more proud and expectant.
Other evenings when the nights grew quiet and still that the stories held more weight, as if telling them was painful and heavy—they smelled of sorrow, and left a bitter aftertaste when they concluded. Mortal did not visit often, but he would come to visit, occupying a space nearby but never fully encroaching the familial line. With him brought remembrance, and vibrant green eyes that watched Mother too closely. He both belonged and did not, Knight never liked the way he told his stories, but he devoured them with fervor all the same. As most children do.
This, however, was no mere story, Knight was finally in the pages of logs written by all those before him. A trail of ink pressed deftly into parchment until binding bore the core and filigree marked the covers of intrinsic landscapes. He was, too, perhaps where another once stood and that small act was enough to settle rightly in his bones and allow his deep hazel gaze to wander freely. This woman, though he wouldn’t settle on simply that, carried herself more confidently than his size alone could ever announce him.
”I’ve known exactly where I am my whole life,” he abandons the wonderment, pulling his gaze from the pines, tugging them from the shadows that seemed to reach out if only they would touch him and tell.
”Knight,” a breath to pull the fragrance near, adjusting his stance, and whisking his tail placidly against his hocks.
”I want to live where my Father once did,” he conceded the request with an intense look. He wanted to stay. Knight wanted to know the Chamber at face value, and not from the pages of a memory presented to a child that knew no better.
In part, maybe he did know something of the wood, but the substance that he knew was knowledge passed on to him. Nothing he could touch, nothing he could hold his word against, but all the pieces remained just where they were left. Scattered in remnants of his Father, some gifted by his own Mother—of course she would give him these—and spoken, too, from the mouths of his older brothers. Days where the words smelled heavily of prestige, tall tales he came to assume because the spoiled speaker could stretch a story. Thus was the way of Ivo, because there was none more proud and expectant.
Other evenings when the nights grew quiet and still that the stories held more weight, as if telling them was painful and heavy—they smelled of sorrow, and left a bitter aftertaste when they concluded. Mortal did not visit often, but he would come to visit, occupying a space nearby but never fully encroaching the familial line. With him brought remembrance, and vibrant green eyes that watched Mother too closely. He both belonged and did not, Knight never liked the way he told his stories, but he devoured them with fervor all the same. As most children do.
This, however, was no mere story, Knight was finally in the pages of logs written by all those before him. A trail of ink pressed deftly into parchment until binding bore the core and filigree marked the covers of intrinsic landscapes. He was, too, perhaps where another once stood and that small act was enough to settle rightly in his bones and allow his deep hazel gaze to wander freely. This woman, though he wouldn’t settle on simply that, carried herself more confidently than his size alone could ever announce him.
”I’ve known exactly where I am my whole life,” he abandons the wonderment, pulling his gaze from the pines, tugging them from the shadows that seemed to reach out if only they would touch him and tell.
”Knight,” a breath to pull the fragrance near, adjusting his stance, and whisking his tail placidly against his hocks.
”I want to live where my Father once did,” he conceded the request with an intense look. He wanted to stay. Knight wanted to know the Chamber at face value, and not from the pages of a memory presented to a child that knew no better.