[P] A Dance with Dragons

[Isorath]

I S O R A T H — you will ache as I ache— tenderly, tragically, beautifully. There is an amused look, in those lilac pools of his, when the sound of bubbles eminated from Jude's spot within the bath. His head tilted a fraction to the side to better look at the petite Kirin. Here surrounded by steam and walls which keep prying eyes away, they can shift out of the skin they have had to adapt in a World that is not Vectaeryn. Where their royal blood counts for naught, the history of their ancestors erased in the ignorance and unknowingness of strangers they are forced to co-exist beside. Their achievements are just words, clever things written haphazardly on corners of books or said in idle conversation. For a moment, he felt that Rael was right, to close of his borders and keep them sheltered. The World is far too cruel, even for the most stalwart of them all. They do not understand, they cannot understand, and their is something painfully tragic in this knowledge. As he looked out at Vaella and Jude, that they are relics and trinkets in this place. Unappreciated and villainized. I must admit I've missed days like this. Reminds me of home. Home. Something constricted painfully in his chest at the word. Home is the smell of ocean wind and myrrh, the crackle of magic skittering across the spine and dragon song. It's marble halls and velvet banners. It's the sound of Naehra's laughter and Thalsian's raucious gruffaw, the clatter of cousins young and old filling the vacuum that would be oh so deep if they were not there at all. It's Aesthia's sly smile, beneath the curls of her silver gold hair, as she looks out at her family with pride and love. Tighter and tighter, like a vice, do those slithering vines wrap around his lungs and his heart, uncaring in their thorns — that when Jude mentions them, the huff of laughter from his pale lips is choked and sputtered. All at once he's tired and alive, so very glad and so very sad the next. He would laugh if he could, but he's afraid that the cadence would be all wrong, warbled and disjointed. A dragon plucked right out of the sky and sent hurdling to the ground. Home. Home away from home was supposed to be Terrastella, and then Denocte. But it is a poor substitute of his land shrouded in a smoking sea and filled with music, magic and dragons. I think I want to take up painting again. Isorath has never cried, well, he has. Once or twice. It is not a pretty thing, it is ugly and raw, and it comes now unwanted and uncaring. Pandora's box opened, the maelstrom in the middle of the sea, a swan singing it's last song with it's head atop it's mate. Fat teardrops in the shape of pears well at the corner of his eyes as his breath is forced poorly into some kind of thing that is decidedly not calm, sucked between set teeth and a bitten lip. Not by a long shot, is this calm or slow, it is fast and brutal. His heart recoiled and a part of it snapped, a whip which struck at his insides again and again. He would rather be angry, a part of him wailed. Anger is what he can deal with, anger is what he knows best. In anger he can function and find some semblance of even footing, he can wrap himself in his silks and gold and sneer, channel the worst of him into barbed remarks or into the edge of a finely crafted blade. In sadness, all he can do is lay there, and allow the ugly, ruined and damaged parts of him to bleed out upon the floor for others to slip upon. Others may have found solace in crying, theraputic and healing. To Isorath it is a sword across his throat, a spear within his chest again. A weak thing fashioned to be exploited. The last time he had cried, Attune had come to him upon his pyre and made him anew. Would she be laughing now? A sad and worrisome thing, that he seemed to have ended right back where he had in his last life? At least here, he thinks, he will not give them the satisfaction of seeing him splintered and cracked. His ichor is gold and red, the colorless tears which stream from his face, the clenched teeth and set jaw. "...Y-you should paint me like one of your Sunsyia Girls, Jude." He managed to get out between sobs, distinctly remembering that Jude had mentioned painting. He is grasping here, for anything to stop from from the onslaught that washes up cruelly on his insides and pours out of him. Anything at all. NOTE; woops. TAGS: @Jude @Vaella "this here is your speech colour!