07-15-2017, 04:34 PM
you can have my isolation,
you can have the hate that it brings.
you can have the hate that it brings.
He could feel it.
He could feel the fire melding into the tender marrow of his bones, liquefying the delicate tissue surrounding it, crawling towards the surface of his skin where it had only lingered once or twice before with a dimly lit ember. It has burned for so long, he could hardly remember a time without it – a time of ice, of snow, when it, too, had seized his heart, freezing it with its frigidity instead of searing it with its heat. Oh, how the mighty ice King had grown and changed – no longer imbued with the enchantment of love, of affection – no, as it always had, his wandering eye and wildly beating heart had sought it elsewhere (he had never been content with only one – only because he had never been content with himself).
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 hazy sky dims as the warm sunlight tucks itself beyond the horizon, 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. It bathes his marred flesh in its light, but the ember is burning brightly across the surface of his skin – lit by a match unseen by the naked eye; lit by the anguish and anger roiling in the pit of his belly.
He had struggled for so long – he had resisted against its burning heat, its scalding caress, but it has consumed him, and the harder he fought, the more quickly he seemed to be losing himself to its bitter, flickering flame. It threatened to envelope him, to swallow him whole, and still, he chose to deny it – he chose not to wield it; not to allow it to be a part of him.
Oh, but it was.
It is.
His beloved his gone – beneath a blanket of darkness, Isle had slipped away, her own heart shattered once more, but he had never promised he could be all that she would want. All that she would need. He only promised that he would try, and he had failed, time and time again – but he had pushed her away, with purpose – with decisiveness. He did not make a plea for her forgiveness. Not this time. He had been forced to live a life of everlasting eternity, far beyond her own death, beyond the death of his children, and his companions – when all else would die, he would remain, and he would be alone. He would go on, forced to exist even as his heart splintered into a thousand pieces – again, and again.
He had pushed her away.
He could not bear to lose her to death, and so he had created a divide – a great, gaping void that lay between them; an emptiness her soft kisses and gentle caresses could not fill – an abyss of loneliness and betrayal he could not take back.
She had left him, and it was better that way.
If she left him, he could not lose her – for she was no longer his to lose.
A selfish man, is he – and though he desperately clutches onto the belief that in fleeting moments, he can look beyond his own suffering, his own pain, to rise above it – but in the end, he is alone, as he has always been. As he would always be.
And beneath the glimmering starlight of the celestial sky, as his hoarse, gruff but liberated cry echoes off the vibrant rivulets of lava trailing down the deep slope of the volcanic beacon that called to him, the fire envelopes him – beginning at the root of his thick, muscular legs and crawling up the length of his body, traveling swiftly over the scarred skin and fully enclosing him in an exoskeleton of bright, blistering fire. It does not burn him, not the way that it had when it was trapped within his chest, forced down, swallowed whole.
No.
The fire no longer burned him;
The fire no longer controlled him.
The release is bittersweet, and the fire is his to command – and even as the fiery blaze soon simmers into a flickering flame, he is whole once more – and he can feel the pieces of himself that he had once thought lost slowly returning to him; slowly restored where each should be.
He would hide no longer.
He no longer had a reason to hide.
From himself, from the fire –
He was free, and quietly, the darkness slipped away.
He could feel the fire melding into the tender marrow of his bones, liquefying the delicate tissue surrounding it, crawling towards the surface of his skin where it had only lingered once or twice before with a dimly lit ember. It has burned for so long, he could hardly remember a time without it – a time of ice, of snow, when it, too, had seized his heart, freezing it with its frigidity instead of searing it with its heat. Oh, how the mighty ice King had grown and changed – no longer imbued with the enchantment of love, of affection – no, as it always had, his wandering eye and wildly beating heart had sought it elsewhere (he had never been content with only one – only because he had never been content with himself).
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 hazy sky dims as the warm sunlight tucks itself beyond the horizon, 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. It bathes his marred flesh in its light, but the ember is burning brightly across the surface of his skin – lit by a match unseen by the naked eye; lit by the anguish and anger roiling in the pit of his belly.
He had struggled for so long – he had resisted against its burning heat, its scalding caress, but it has consumed him, and the harder he fought, the more quickly he seemed to be losing himself to its bitter, flickering flame. It threatened to envelope him, to swallow him whole, and still, he chose to deny it – he chose not to wield it; not to allow it to be a part of him.
Oh, but it was.
It is.
His beloved his gone – beneath a blanket of darkness, Isle had slipped away, her own heart shattered once more, but he had never promised he could be all that she would want. All that she would need. He only promised that he would try, and he had failed, time and time again – but he had pushed her away, with purpose – with decisiveness. He did not make a plea for her forgiveness. Not this time. He had been forced to live a life of everlasting eternity, far beyond her own death, beyond the death of his children, and his companions – when all else would die, he would remain, and he would be alone. He would go on, forced to exist even as his heart splintered into a thousand pieces – again, and again.
He had pushed her away.
He could not bear to lose her to death, and so he had created a divide – a great, gaping void that lay between them; an emptiness her soft kisses and gentle caresses could not fill – an abyss of loneliness and betrayal he could not take back.
She had left him, and it was better that way.
If she left him, he could not lose her – for she was no longer his to lose.
A selfish man, is he – and though he desperately clutches onto the belief that in fleeting moments, he can look beyond his own suffering, his own pain, to rise above it – but in the end, he is alone, as he has always been. As he would always be.
And beneath the glimmering starlight of the celestial sky, as his hoarse, gruff but liberated cry echoes off the vibrant rivulets of lava trailing down the deep slope of the volcanic beacon that called to him, the fire envelopes him – beginning at the root of his thick, muscular legs and crawling up the length of his body, traveling swiftly over the scarred skin and fully enclosing him in an exoskeleton of bright, blistering fire. It does not burn him, not the way that it had when it was trapped within his chest, forced down, swallowed whole.
No.
The fire no longer burned him;
The fire no longer controlled him.
The release is bittersweet, and the fire is his to command – and even as the fiery blaze soon simmers into a flickering flame, he is whole once more – and he can feel the pieces of himself that he had once thought lost slowly returning to him; slowly restored where each should be.
He would hide no longer.
He no longer had a reason to hide.
From himself, from the fire –
He was free, and quietly, the darkness slipped away.
you can have my absence of faith,
you can have my everything.
you can have my everything.
OFFSPRING
He has embraced his pyrokinesis and his fire exoskeleton, and because he has accepted himself and his power, the darkness that has been battling him for control has gone away.
Also, he is under the impression that he is still immortal.
He is not.
I miss my old snuggly Offy.
