06-07-2017, 04:09 PM
you can have my isolation,
you can have the hate that it brings.
you can have the hate that it brings.
The evening is hot, and the air is stagnant. The humidity has settled, washed ashore by an updraft of wind that seemingly halted at the very border of the waters’ edge. In the distance, the rhythmic churning of the endless sea laps gently at the impacted sand, whittling it away piece by piece, carving its wayward mark into the island. The horizon is dimly lit and hazy, with a low-lying fog that ostensibly clutches tightly to the rim of the volcano, tracing its jagged edges and tendrils of molten lava with its bleakness.
Still, the fading sunlight manages to peek through the translucent cloud cover, draping the dry, golden vegetation in a fiery display of crimson and rust, imitating the burning fire that flickered deep within the hearth of his chest. He can feel it, even now, amidst his vacant reverie, touching the delicate tissue lining his rib cage, stirring discomfort in his tired bones.
The fatigue has faded away, and it has given into something more – something more than any mere emotion or physical ailment. Where the fire burns, something else burns alongside it, pushing him forward, invigorating him with prowess that slowly burned its way through his worldly flesh, carving its fiery presence into his very essence.
He is uneasy – the world is changing, and with it, he is changing, too.
The scent of sulfur and the salty brine of the sea are lost on him; he is fully immersed into the land of volcanic matter and ash – no longer does he shy away from the stillness of the summer heat, nor does he grimace as his own movement stirs the beading of sweat along the slope of his broad spine, tickling his marred flesh as the individual streaks of his own perspiration slide down along the girth of his flank, staining the darkness of his skin. It is as natural and as much a part of him as the ice once had been – and though there is still a piece of him that yearns for simpler times, tucked within the damp shadow of a mountain cave while the onslaught of a winter storm does its worst, he no longer hungers for the ice to be a part of him.
Where there once was ice, now there is fire, hot and scalding against its iron cage, seeping from his pores and enveloping him in its warm. Searing with a feverish warmth, his behemoth form of wiry muscle and fortified bone is no longer worn down by the stifling heat of day, nor the uncomfortable stickiness of evenfall – it is nothing to him, and he is indifferent to it now – for he is as much a part of it as it is a part of him.
.. The heat of dusk is drawing him out of his thoughtful pause, pulling him away from the soothing whisper of the ocean tide and towards the distant rumble of the yawning volcano. Above him, the hazy sky darkens, and the bright, wholesome moon rises into the two-toned sky, entrenching it in its brilliant light, even as the atmosphere itself dims into a deep, endless navy, speckled with twinkling starlight to light the way.
He does not need a guide, though – for it is well-trodden.
His powerful legs carry him through the dense vegetation, as delicate tendrils of dry grain caress him with each sweeping stride, but the fire is burning brightly within, and he cannot think of anything else. Her gentle kiss pressed against his hip, and her wary, watchful gaze upon him – she had a part of him that no one else had, and yet she looked upon him as a stranger, as an outsider, and though there is a fragmented piece of him that is filled with misery and sorrow at the thought of their estrangement, there is a larger part of him that is angry, that is enraged by her reproach. No words need be spoken. Her bright, doe eyes of the richest chestnut had searched the hardened plane of his face, and had looked upon him with indiscernible emotion – hesitance; uncertainty.
He felt angry; hurt.
She looked upon him as if she had never known him at all.
His searing eyes of brimstone and fire search the dark shadow of the mountain base, seeking her soft, supple curves, her delicate posture – and upon finding her linger close to the quiet, yawning cave that they had come to call their own, the raging fury bubbling inside of him quiets to a slight simmer, and in its place, a tepid warmth lingers like the heat of burning coal.
He presses the flattened plush of his nose against her hip, inhaling her scent (she, too, carries the stench of sulfur, but with it, flora and fauna, and everything sweet) and tasting the salt on her skin. His lips press urgently against her spine, crawling the length of it with his teeth slightly bared, raking across the sensitive skin of her vertebrae before biting gently onto her withers.
Lust rouses from somewhere deep within him, and longing for a time where they had not been strangers – where he had known every part and crevice of her body, pressed neatly into the folds of his own – once a perfect fit, now unfamiliar and jagged along the edges in where broken fragments lie. There, entangled with her dark tresses, and feeling the dampness of her against his own marred skin, he burns again – not so hot that she will be unable to bear the heat of him, but enough.
”Isle,” he murmurs against her skin, searching for some semblance of what had been, of what was. Could it still be? ”Look at me.”
Still, the fading sunlight manages to peek through the translucent cloud cover, draping the dry, golden vegetation in a fiery display of crimson and rust, imitating the burning fire that flickered deep within the hearth of his chest. He can feel it, even now, amidst his vacant reverie, touching the delicate tissue lining his rib cage, stirring discomfort in his tired bones.
The fatigue has faded away, and it has given into something more – something more than any mere emotion or physical ailment. Where the fire burns, something else burns alongside it, pushing him forward, invigorating him with prowess that slowly burned its way through his worldly flesh, carving its fiery presence into his very essence.
He is uneasy – the world is changing, and with it, he is changing, too.
The scent of sulfur and the salty brine of the sea are lost on him; he is fully immersed into the land of volcanic matter and ash – no longer does he shy away from the stillness of the summer heat, nor does he grimace as his own movement stirs the beading of sweat along the slope of his broad spine, tickling his marred flesh as the individual streaks of his own perspiration slide down along the girth of his flank, staining the darkness of his skin. It is as natural and as much a part of him as the ice once had been – and though there is still a piece of him that yearns for simpler times, tucked within the damp shadow of a mountain cave while the onslaught of a winter storm does its worst, he no longer hungers for the ice to be a part of him.
Where there once was ice, now there is fire, hot and scalding against its iron cage, seeping from his pores and enveloping him in its warm. Searing with a feverish warmth, his behemoth form of wiry muscle and fortified bone is no longer worn down by the stifling heat of day, nor the uncomfortable stickiness of evenfall – it is nothing to him, and he is indifferent to it now – for he is as much a part of it as it is a part of him.
.. The heat of dusk is drawing him out of his thoughtful pause, pulling him away from the soothing whisper of the ocean tide and towards the distant rumble of the yawning volcano. Above him, the hazy sky darkens, and the bright, wholesome moon rises into the two-toned sky, entrenching it in its brilliant light, even as the atmosphere itself dims into a deep, endless navy, speckled with twinkling starlight to light the way.
He does not need a guide, though – for it is well-trodden.
His powerful legs carry him through the dense vegetation, as delicate tendrils of dry grain caress him with each sweeping stride, but the fire is burning brightly within, and he cannot think of anything else. Her gentle kiss pressed against his hip, and her wary, watchful gaze upon him – she had a part of him that no one else had, and yet she looked upon him as a stranger, as an outsider, and though there is a fragmented piece of him that is filled with misery and sorrow at the thought of their estrangement, there is a larger part of him that is angry, that is enraged by her reproach. No words need be spoken. Her bright, doe eyes of the richest chestnut had searched the hardened plane of his face, and had looked upon him with indiscernible emotion – hesitance; uncertainty.
He felt angry; hurt.
She looked upon him as if she had never known him at all.
His searing eyes of brimstone and fire search the dark shadow of the mountain base, seeking her soft, supple curves, her delicate posture – and upon finding her linger close to the quiet, yawning cave that they had come to call their own, the raging fury bubbling inside of him quiets to a slight simmer, and in its place, a tepid warmth lingers like the heat of burning coal.
He presses the flattened plush of his nose against her hip, inhaling her scent (she, too, carries the stench of sulfur, but with it, flora and fauna, and everything sweet) and tasting the salt on her skin. His lips press urgently against her spine, crawling the length of it with his teeth slightly bared, raking across the sensitive skin of her vertebrae before biting gently onto her withers.
Lust rouses from somewhere deep within him, and longing for a time where they had not been strangers – where he had known every part and crevice of her body, pressed neatly into the folds of his own – once a perfect fit, now unfamiliar and jagged along the edges in where broken fragments lie. There, entangled with her dark tresses, and feeling the dampness of her against his own marred skin, he burns again – not so hot that she will be unable to bear the heat of him, but enough.
”Isle,” he murmurs against her skin, searching for some semblance of what had been, of what was. Could it still be? ”Look at me.”
you can have my absence of faith,
you can have my everything.
you can have my everything.
OFFSPRING