09-08-2016, 11:16 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
To dream would be an escape – a plight of hope (and maybe horror). To dream would be something so completely foreign to Eight; he does not dream, he does not know what lays in the dark crevices of his own mind. To dream, perhaps, would be to show Eight the very reflection of himself. To peel back the layers and show him what his heart aches for, to show him remorse for the sins he has committed, to show him the horrors of what he has done, to show him the future that lays ahead. But he does not dream – for to dream would be to escape.
But to be haunted? Yes, Eight knows that feeling well, little Rome. His whole life he has been haunted (and hunted) – his whole life has been a rotary of running from the very power in his veins. He is haunted by everything he is not. He has had kingdoms, he has started war, he has taken lives, he has created life – but he has never wanted. He has never craved a closure like you do now. He has never known the limitless bound of love, or the ever heart shredding feeling of loss, or the piquing of childlike curiosity. He is haunted by everything he will never have.
Chaos is what we all know now. The rummaging hands of Beqanna picking through your skin, plucking your traits like small flowers in a field. The chaotic reminiscence in your heart, the panicked notion that you are no longer who you were, who are you? The confusion is what encompasses the land – the rifting of kingdoms, the shellacking over traits so that you are all very much alike (the magician king included). Some are bereaved with the loss, feeling orphaned and alone in this vast, vast land. But you? You, little Rome, seem quite content as always. As pure as the evening that Eight saw you, you are still so placid, still so accepting – still so quiet amongst the chaos and dreams and haunting.
A month has passed since Beqanna had eaten herself up and all those who lived there. A month of uncertainty, of homelessness, of the complete lack of knowledge of what to do next. There is little doubt that more disruption lays on the horizon, that there is more to come from Her and Her wrath and anger. But for now? Now things were settled into place, like the flower bursting and blooming beneath the snow – the people of Beqanna were pushing through the cold shoulder that She had given them.
But you, Rome – what have you gotten yourself into? You stayed quietly in her bosom, awaking on the mountain with a pair of wings on your back, and letting yourself drift down to where all the others await. Did you know he would come find you? Did the dream of flora and tickles and chasing wake you up from your slumber, did it call you to the open snow drifts of the meadow? Did you think maybe this time I will find him?
You are older now, your body has changed (not in just the lack of ocelot-like form), but in the fact that you have filled out slightly, you have lost your childish lilt, you have grown slightly taller. You are no longer that small and fragile thing in the forest. But who is to say for your mind? The juvenile nature of it was appealing to Eight – could we even say, endearing? The fact that everything was so new and bright, that the idea of magic and fairy tales was something you held in awe. The very idea that you would chase something without knowing where you would end up.
Your reverie is not lost on Eight, and he sees the wistful fog of memory in your eyes. Little does he know (now that he’s stripped of his power) – that it is your very first meeting that is resonating like a seed in your mind.
“No. I was not. There were other places that needed me.” Eight had little reasoning to give to you, for where had Eight gone after seeing you? Who really knew. Perhaps back to the Valley, to attend as her guardian – perhaps to prepare for war and defeat Yael – perhaps he simply vanished from Beqanna, as he was wont to do.
“No frolicking for you now, hm? Simply enjoying the gifts this new land has to offer?” His eyes scan the horizon before connecting with yours once more, searching for that innocent inflection that had once been there.
But to be haunted? Yes, Eight knows that feeling well, little Rome. His whole life he has been haunted (and hunted) – his whole life has been a rotary of running from the very power in his veins. He is haunted by everything he is not. He has had kingdoms, he has started war, he has taken lives, he has created life – but he has never wanted. He has never craved a closure like you do now. He has never known the limitless bound of love, or the ever heart shredding feeling of loss, or the piquing of childlike curiosity. He is haunted by everything he will never have.
Chaos is what we all know now. The rummaging hands of Beqanna picking through your skin, plucking your traits like small flowers in a field. The chaotic reminiscence in your heart, the panicked notion that you are no longer who you were, who are you? The confusion is what encompasses the land – the rifting of kingdoms, the shellacking over traits so that you are all very much alike (the magician king included). Some are bereaved with the loss, feeling orphaned and alone in this vast, vast land. But you? You, little Rome, seem quite content as always. As pure as the evening that Eight saw you, you are still so placid, still so accepting – still so quiet amongst the chaos and dreams and haunting.
A month has passed since Beqanna had eaten herself up and all those who lived there. A month of uncertainty, of homelessness, of the complete lack of knowledge of what to do next. There is little doubt that more disruption lays on the horizon, that there is more to come from Her and Her wrath and anger. But for now? Now things were settled into place, like the flower bursting and blooming beneath the snow – the people of Beqanna were pushing through the cold shoulder that She had given them.
But you, Rome – what have you gotten yourself into? You stayed quietly in her bosom, awaking on the mountain with a pair of wings on your back, and letting yourself drift down to where all the others await. Did you know he would come find you? Did the dream of flora and tickles and chasing wake you up from your slumber, did it call you to the open snow drifts of the meadow? Did you think maybe this time I will find him?
You are older now, your body has changed (not in just the lack of ocelot-like form), but in the fact that you have filled out slightly, you have lost your childish lilt, you have grown slightly taller. You are no longer that small and fragile thing in the forest. But who is to say for your mind? The juvenile nature of it was appealing to Eight – could we even say, endearing? The fact that everything was so new and bright, that the idea of magic and fairy tales was something you held in awe. The very idea that you would chase something without knowing where you would end up.
Your reverie is not lost on Eight, and he sees the wistful fog of memory in your eyes. Little does he know (now that he’s stripped of his power) – that it is your very first meeting that is resonating like a seed in your mind.
“No. I was not. There were other places that needed me.” Eight had little reasoning to give to you, for where had Eight gone after seeing you? Who really knew. Perhaps back to the Valley, to attend as her guardian – perhaps to prepare for war and defeat Yael – perhaps he simply vanished from Beqanna, as he was wont to do.
“No frolicking for you now, hm? Simply enjoying the gifts this new land has to offer?” His eyes scan the horizon before connecting with yours once more, searching for that innocent inflection that had once been there.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in