08-30-2017, 01:11 AM
I want to find something I've wanted all along.
He knew the anguish of being ordinary.
He knew the heart-wrenching ache of being nothing at all. He could not remember a time in his life that he had not been viewed as frail, as feeble, as less than. He is fragile, with a ragged and irregular heartbeat – it left him easily winded, his breath stolen by some unseen force that stirred frustration in the pit of his stomach. Despite the sinew and bone that built him to what he is, all that is seen along the surface is weakness, and deep within the hearth of his chest, his callous, hardening heart lay, buried deeper than the memories that he had tried so desperately to forget – deeper than the emotion that kept him awake at night, staring at a starlit sky that held no promise for him.
The world had changed, and with it, he had changed too. No longer was he the same awkward boy he had once been – with sharp hipbones protruding beneath the darkness of his skin, or the inlet of his ribs peering out from the thin and sallow ivory that lined his barrel. He had grown, inevitably becoming broader and more muscular with time, and yet it all still seemed as if he were wearing a skin far too big for him to manage. He was still gaunt (he preferred the stillness of the lake; to bathe in its pristine, crystal clear water – as still as it was, and so his muscle had waned) and he was still far from the prime that had been sworn to him by his youth.
He was a shadow of what he could be; a shadow of what he never would be. He often kept to himself, tasting the sweet flora on his tongue, savoring the way the soft and fragile petals felt on his supple, parted lips – relishing in the icy dew that sated his thirst. It had been years since he had seen his mother, his father, his brother – his sisters. His heart pined, when the dark moon failed to show itself in the clarity of a barren sky, or when his breathing became most ragged and his body felt its weakest. That was when he thought most of his mother, of her cradling him close to her chest, soothing his ache, untangling the frayed knots that had found its way into the tousled mess of his mane – he missed her; he would always miss her.
But he could not bring himself to return to her, to return to him - to the father had had become calloused and distant; to the mother that had seen the brokenness inside of him and worried herself into exhaustion. To return to the brother that had loved him in a way he never deserved to be loved (by no one – he is worthless). To return to the sister who had been bitter, who had never been a sister at all. To Keeper, the gilded, fleeting doe-eyed mare that had whispered her name to him, who had never seen him as anything but Argo.
When he sees her, his heart – oh, what a frail and pathetic thing – hammers suddenly inside of his chest, stirring a hitch of breath in his throat. He is uncertain (could it be her? After so long? After so many years?), while anxiety emerges and roils with a fury of its own within the thick blood lining his veins, but he does not shy away. And when she whispers his name – it carries in the breeze, caressing the surface of his flushed skin, enveloping him in its embrace – he is suddenly all too aware of how the pale moonlight had brought him to her; that fate had held a different plan than his own.
”Keeper,” he breathes, his slender neck outstretched, nostrils flaring with the scent of pine and sage lingering in the tangle of her haphazard tresses. His teeth delicately clasp a tangled dandelion and leave it to drift away with the eastern-bound wind, breathless for a reason he is not at all used to.
He knew the heart-wrenching ache of being nothing at all. He could not remember a time in his life that he had not been viewed as frail, as feeble, as less than. He is fragile, with a ragged and irregular heartbeat – it left him easily winded, his breath stolen by some unseen force that stirred frustration in the pit of his stomach. Despite the sinew and bone that built him to what he is, all that is seen along the surface is weakness, and deep within the hearth of his chest, his callous, hardening heart lay, buried deeper than the memories that he had tried so desperately to forget – deeper than the emotion that kept him awake at night, staring at a starlit sky that held no promise for him.
The world had changed, and with it, he had changed too. No longer was he the same awkward boy he had once been – with sharp hipbones protruding beneath the darkness of his skin, or the inlet of his ribs peering out from the thin and sallow ivory that lined his barrel. He had grown, inevitably becoming broader and more muscular with time, and yet it all still seemed as if he were wearing a skin far too big for him to manage. He was still gaunt (he preferred the stillness of the lake; to bathe in its pristine, crystal clear water – as still as it was, and so his muscle had waned) and he was still far from the prime that had been sworn to him by his youth.
He was a shadow of what he could be; a shadow of what he never would be. He often kept to himself, tasting the sweet flora on his tongue, savoring the way the soft and fragile petals felt on his supple, parted lips – relishing in the icy dew that sated his thirst. It had been years since he had seen his mother, his father, his brother – his sisters. His heart pined, when the dark moon failed to show itself in the clarity of a barren sky, or when his breathing became most ragged and his body felt its weakest. That was when he thought most of his mother, of her cradling him close to her chest, soothing his ache, untangling the frayed knots that had found its way into the tousled mess of his mane – he missed her; he would always miss her.
But he could not bring himself to return to her, to return to him - to the father had had become calloused and distant; to the mother that had seen the brokenness inside of him and worried herself into exhaustion. To return to the brother that had loved him in a way he never deserved to be loved (by no one – he is worthless). To return to the sister who had been bitter, who had never been a sister at all. To Keeper, the gilded, fleeting doe-eyed mare that had whispered her name to him, who had never seen him as anything but Argo.
When he sees her, his heart – oh, what a frail and pathetic thing – hammers suddenly inside of his chest, stirring a hitch of breath in his throat. He is uncertain (could it be her? After so long? After so many years?), while anxiety emerges and roils with a fury of its own within the thick blood lining his veins, but he does not shy away. And when she whispers his name – it carries in the breeze, caressing the surface of his flushed skin, enveloping him in its embrace – he is suddenly all too aware of how the pale moonlight had brought him to her; that fate had held a different plan than his own.
”Keeper,” he breathes, his slender neck outstretched, nostrils flaring with the scent of pine and sage lingering in the tangle of her haphazard tresses. His teeth delicately clasp a tangled dandelion and leave it to drift away with the eastern-bound wind, breathless for a reason he is not at all used to.
ARGO
somewhere I belong
@[keeper]