01-31-2022, 05:10 PM
Don't look back, nothing left to see
I can feel you though, wake me from this dreamin
I can feel you though, wake me from this dreamin
There is nothing but endless amounts of time on his hands. With the South gone, their purpose gone, and only scraps of plans before them…
Here in the meadow at least are familiar remnants. He looks in on the old thicket where he had curled up in as a child, now taken over by a doe and her fawn which he startles accidentally. The old hiding spots of nectar are dry but it doesn’t matter when he now has the power to manifest it himself. And manifest he does because the only thing that seems to beat the hollow emptiness inside of him is the mind-numbing nectar that makes it hard to think. When he is embraced in the warm blanket of the honeyed liquid then he isn’t thinking about Tantalize. Or his son’s eager innocent face. He’s not thinking of Fyr and his field of flaming flowers or the scared face of Sickle or the tears in Bardot’s haunting eyes.
When he is drunk, the snake is quiet and his failures don’t line up one by one before him. An endless lecture of disappointment.
He is still just as handsome and beautiful as he always is, despite being sprawled in a disarray amongst the lush spring grass. He will never age, he will never die, and he starts to wonder if immortality is no longer the blessing he had thought it was. Perhaps all magic was a curse after all. Light is busy weaving new flowers into his mane, a task that he takes to with creative flourish, now that they can no longer naturally catch in his mane. The Wisp does his work as the displaced Prince watches white clouds drift in the sky and for awhile… For awhile there is nothing but the hum of the Wisp at work and the warmth settling in those hollow places within his star-covered chest.
Here in the meadow at least are familiar remnants. He looks in on the old thicket where he had curled up in as a child, now taken over by a doe and her fawn which he startles accidentally. The old hiding spots of nectar are dry but it doesn’t matter when he now has the power to manifest it himself. And manifest he does because the only thing that seems to beat the hollow emptiness inside of him is the mind-numbing nectar that makes it hard to think. When he is embraced in the warm blanket of the honeyed liquid then he isn’t thinking about Tantalize. Or his son’s eager innocent face. He’s not thinking of Fyr and his field of flaming flowers or the scared face of Sickle or the tears in Bardot’s haunting eyes.
When he is drunk, the snake is quiet and his failures don’t line up one by one before him. An endless lecture of disappointment.
He is still just as handsome and beautiful as he always is, despite being sprawled in a disarray amongst the lush spring grass. He will never age, he will never die, and he starts to wonder if immortality is no longer the blessing he had thought it was. Perhaps all magic was a curse after all. Light is busy weaving new flowers into his mane, a task that he takes to with creative flourish, now that they can no longer naturally catch in his mane. The Wisp does his work as the displaced Prince watches white clouds drift in the sky and for awhile… For awhile there is nothing but the hum of the Wisp at work and the warmth settling in those hollow places within his star-covered chest.
obscene
Any!
![[Image: Obscene-Pixel.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/fTkjKh9Q/Obscene-Pixel.png){kind=tracking}