Nevi

[Offspring]

LET ME IN THE WALL YOU'VE BUILT AROUND.

WE CAN LIGHT A MATCH, AND BURN IT DOWN.

   The tender muscles along his shoulders ache deeply, penetrating the usual solemn expression that he carries - rippling a grimace of deep-set pain that causes him to clench his jaw with each limping step. Though the battle had been intense, the adrenaline had kept both the effects of the poison and the heavy anguish of his various flesh wounds at bay - until the long journey home, riddled with weary thoughts and an old, familiar loneliness. When he returned, the sun had already fallen below the horizon and the fractured, injured King quietly pressed on through the quiet, pristine evenfall as the last glimpse of sunlight faded beyond the tips of the mountains far off in the distance.

   His dark pelt, scarred as it always had been, was still tainted with dried blood and along his neck lay fresh wounds dug into delicate tissue and fat deposits. His eyes, worn with fatigue, surveyed the serene permafrost-encased land that lay before him. He had given himself to protect it; to defend it and to uphold the honor of his allies. He had neglected to bring any of his men - or women - into it. It was a war he needed to wage alone, without the weight and burden of putting anyone else in the crossfire. The poison still managed to eat away at the very irritable, sapped edges of his soul, which felt so restless in contrast to his worn, weary body.

   He lingers for a moment, his breath heavy with the icy chill (oh, how it soothes him in a way - he had missed it, and the warmth of the summer sun had not been kind to his aching body) as he pauses to dwell on how even the very existence of his bones cause his brow to furrow in agony. He swallows the ache, still, pressing forward. He did not want to bring attention to his condition, nor obtain the pity or concern of his loved ones - but he craved to see familiar eyes; to remember why he had fought so terribly hard. Had it all been a terrible nightmare? Was the sharp blade that delved into his old wounds a figment of his imagination? Had the massive, three-headed beast been an illusion? Was the poison that Lagertha oozed so heavily into his open wound beginning to eat away at his neurons; destroying the very fiber of what remained of his sanity?

   He knew naught, but a gentle murmuring draws his attention away from his own self-loathing. His muscles still protest angrily, though he ignores it, as he begins to slowly tread towards an open cave system. He knew his many children hid away within the confines once the sun fell, and maybe even the gentle reminder of their voices could bring him some semblance of normalcy. He stumbles for a moment as the poison takes hold again, causing him to flinch as he regains his posture. He pushes on, regardless, but stops at once - there are two hushed voices, murmuring not only with intention, but with fervent desire.

   A frown pulls at his whiskered lips; had he missed the youth of his children? Were they so grown, so beyond their innocence that they were engaging in something carnal so soon? A longing pang for days long since passed chews away at the grievous wound within his heart (he had not seen Isle in many days; he knew it would not be a welcome homecoming to see her again - this always remained in the back of his mind, for nothing he could say or do could change it now), and quietly, he listens. Lieschel. Neverwas. Desire? Want?

   A flash of fury rises in his chest, but he is too tired, too far gone to do anything but stifle it. He cannot be furious, not until he tucks himself away for a few days and allows his wounds - both emotional and physical - to heal. Instead, sorrow fills his still aching heart. His children, once so innocently close, making heated promises - to each other? A shade of shame shadows his heart and mind, provoked further by the mention of his biological son, Argo. Three of his children? Where had he been; how had he missed it? The whispers grow more hushed, and he cannot simply ignore it.

   He steps forward, his massive form - scarred, bloodied and heavily leaning against the hard stone of the cave entrance - making an obvious appearance as he eclipses the gentle, romantic moonlight. He peers down upon them, tangled up with their whiskered lips too close, their bodies entangled in a way that suggests so much more is within reach for them. His heart pounds heartily several times against his chest, and soon, he finds his voice, ragged and war-torn as it is.

   "I have failed you, haven't I?" He rumbles softly. The words sound foreign, yet they are his, all the same. "I have failed you both. Your mother and I both have. We should have been there; should have listened. You are too young," He muses now, searing red eyes set upon them. "you have no idea what love entails. Neither of you. Not the love of you speak of. It is more painful and complex than either of you could imagine."

   He knows that his children are not ignorant to the change shifting within their family caste; he and Isle had seen each other sparingly and their words were often bitter, hurtful and resentful. Though he aches to hold her close, he cannot anchor his beloved wanderer any longer, and it is only a matter of time until he parts from her entirely, leaving the broken pieces of him behind. He had been a fool to think anything more of their union - he was not meant for love; he was not meant for happiness.

   Perhaps no one was.
   Perhaps it is an empty promise.
   A collection of delicately-woven lies.

   "If you want to leave, I will not stop you." His eyes are now set upon Lieschel, his heart still stinging from her words. Words she did not think he was likely to ever hear. "But you will always belong here, with me. With the Tundra. If you should ever need it."

   I'm sorry, he doesn't say, but he isn't sure what good it would do anyway.

OFFSPRING

THE FIRE AND ICE KING OF THE TUNDRA