09-10-2017, 09:44 AM
you can have my isolation,
you can have the hate that it brings.
you can have the hate that it brings.
He knew he would never see what he could of the volcanic island –
He knew that the fallen King would never know of the brimstone and fire that had burned beneath his skin for so long, scalding him from within, burning him with its ferocity as his weary heart longed for ice. Only one knew of the heartache and anguish that had been dealt to him so long ago, carved into his flesh, leaving him with an anxiety that made his skin crawl and feverish nightmares that left him drenched in perspiration and enveloped in the stench of blood. There was a metallic taste he would never be able to forget, still so sharp and pungent upon his tongue, even years after he had been swept into another time, to another place. He had been used as a heavily manipulated, broken pawn by an insidious creature, lacking empathy; absent of integrity – of morality.
A dream, he had thought it then, but over time he had come to know it was so much more.
He would never know of the pain he had endured, torn apart limb to limb, pieced back together – he would never know the length that he had gone to, to preserve his family – to ensure the safety of those his heart longed for and cared for most, only to have his weary heart scorned and isolated in the end. He would never know how the ice that had once been a part of his very existence (the ice, oh how he longed for it so, even now –a different time, a different place -- he does yearn for it as Hurricane does) had become fire, burning the very tissue that built him into what he was with each gasping breath.
It had taken him so long to accept the fire as a part of himself; it was difficult for him to remember a time before it. The volcano itself felt as much a part of him as the frigid wind and icy landscape ever had – in part because the island knew how he burned, and it burned alongside him. Quietly, his gaze is steadied upon him, with the thickness of his own words heavy on his tongue – there is a quiet longing to share his despair with another, with another who could understand the inevitable weight and burden of too much time; with another who knew loss as he did.
Thank you, brother, he says quietly, and he is suddenly all too aware that there is nothing left to be said between the two – already, he understood him far more than many ever would.
The comfort of his utterance is short-lived, however, as the blistering fire that had been idly stirring within the hearth of his breast suddenly emerges – startling even him, as the flame surfaces across his marred flesh, enveloping him in a thick, flickering exoskeleton of fire. Even he is wary, glancing to the stoic figure that lay before him, his own heart thundering within the tight confinement of his chest –
There is no time for him to express his astonishment; to exclaim his own disbelief – the fire is rising, burning hotter, bright – crawling down the length of his heavily muscled, feathers legs and crawling along the moist and fertile soil upon which he is standing, before rising and carving out two bleary but clearly defined shapes. The fire is flickering and sparking, its hefty energy spent in etching each careful detail, filling in the outline it had so effortlessly created – before it is withdrawn, drawing back into the burning hearth of his body, leaving behind a filly and colt in its wake – one as black as himself, and the other with finely preened wings draped over its dark but graying skin.
Quietly, stunned, his gaze meets with the ice to match his brimstone –
What just happened?
He knew that the fallen King would never know of the brimstone and fire that had burned beneath his skin for so long, scalding him from within, burning him with its ferocity as his weary heart longed for ice. Only one knew of the heartache and anguish that had been dealt to him so long ago, carved into his flesh, leaving him with an anxiety that made his skin crawl and feverish nightmares that left him drenched in perspiration and enveloped in the stench of blood. There was a metallic taste he would never be able to forget, still so sharp and pungent upon his tongue, even years after he had been swept into another time, to another place. He had been used as a heavily manipulated, broken pawn by an insidious creature, lacking empathy; absent of integrity – of morality.
A dream, he had thought it then, but over time he had come to know it was so much more.
He would never know of the pain he had endured, torn apart limb to limb, pieced back together – he would never know the length that he had gone to, to preserve his family – to ensure the safety of those his heart longed for and cared for most, only to have his weary heart scorned and isolated in the end. He would never know how the ice that had once been a part of his very existence (the ice, oh how he longed for it so, even now –a different time, a different place -- he does yearn for it as Hurricane does) had become fire, burning the very tissue that built him into what he was with each gasping breath.
It had taken him so long to accept the fire as a part of himself; it was difficult for him to remember a time before it. The volcano itself felt as much a part of him as the frigid wind and icy landscape ever had – in part because the island knew how he burned, and it burned alongside him. Quietly, his gaze is steadied upon him, with the thickness of his own words heavy on his tongue – there is a quiet longing to share his despair with another, with another who could understand the inevitable weight and burden of too much time; with another who knew loss as he did.
Thank you, brother, he says quietly, and he is suddenly all too aware that there is nothing left to be said between the two – already, he understood him far more than many ever would.
The comfort of his utterance is short-lived, however, as the blistering fire that had been idly stirring within the hearth of his breast suddenly emerges – startling even him, as the flame surfaces across his marred flesh, enveloping him in a thick, flickering exoskeleton of fire. Even he is wary, glancing to the stoic figure that lay before him, his own heart thundering within the tight confinement of his chest –
There is no time for him to express his astonishment; to exclaim his own disbelief – the fire is rising, burning hotter, bright – crawling down the length of his heavily muscled, feathers legs and crawling along the moist and fertile soil upon which he is standing, before rising and carving out two bleary but clearly defined shapes. The fire is flickering and sparking, its hefty energy spent in etching each careful detail, filling in the outline it had so effortlessly created – before it is withdrawn, drawing back into the burning hearth of his body, leaving behind a filly and colt in its wake – one as black as himself, and the other with finely preened wings draped over its dark but graying skin.
Quietly, stunned, his gaze meets with the ice to match his brimstone –
What just happened?
you can have my absence of faith,
you can have my everything.
you can have my everything.
OFFSPRING
@[Hurricane] - BABIES!
Hahah, so overdue. Also, a lot of Offy womping about his quest days.