CROWNS HAVE THEIR COMPASS-LENGTH OF DAYS THEIR DATE-
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
Sometimes he wished he was.
Instead of claiming to feel and hear vestiges, their voices, their sounds, their moments of glory, and their maddening instances of defeat. Sometimes he yearned to be the one succumbed, so they still had beating hearts and blissful lives, and maybe he could alone in the sepulchers, watching them from afar. They would’ve been committed to brighter, better ambitions, blistering ambitions set in the familial brow – with gnashing teeth and clenching jaws and stalwart commitments. Sometimes he thought of rampaging through devastation and ruin all over again, simply so he could join them, and never be alone. For some days the determination was worn, and the fire had turned to cinders, cold and afraid, ashen and barren, endeavors inept and ineffectual. For he was searching for things he could never have, and until someone told him, until someone screamed it in his face and against his soul, he’d keep looking, keep waiting, keep watching – for a glimmer, a sign, of something more than faith. Even that, at some point, had to become tangible.
He didn’t see the bird. He didn’t see anything at all – not with his eyes shut and his remnants all but abandoned, a press of a knife down the back of his throat. The aches and pains were familiar, residual, from when he pushed too far. The inward ones were too, a different mark of scars and lacerations, chiseled, sculpted, and carved on the back of his ribs, from where everything hurt but he couldn’t permit his face to wear the onslaught, the misery, or the anguish. His sides slowed, lungs and nares absorbing the much-needed air, but his wings remained unmoving, as if the effort were too great for now.
The boy would give it some time before trying again. Before flying into the sky and leaving everything behind. Before following traces and filaments that weren’t real. Before giving up – but gods, it was tempting and enticing to lay upon the ground, to wait for it to absorb him.
Another maneuvered nearby; the instinctual twitch of his ears caught the sensations of movement in the sand, and he should’ve reacted instantly. He should’ve hoisted himself up quickly, swiftly, in case this being was a threat, and he was the next target (that’s how demons and monsters worked; he knew, he’d escaped them all).
But he didn’t try this time. Maybe he’d let them take him, consume him whole, flesh and bone, and the ache in his heart would cease.
A soft voice followed, and he opened one crimson eye to land upon another wholly unfamiliar. A glimpse of silver, of argent, of ivory laden amidst the snow, and the lid fell again, lashes pressed against his cheek. He thought about lying, like he’d always done before. Yes. Of course I’m all right. Then they’d leave him alone, and he’d be free to carry on, to drift aimlessly, an unrelenting force of nothing. But the deception stuck to his tongue, and veracity slipped forth instead, changing, changing, changing, for he had naught else to do. “No.” A pause, another intake of breath, the inhale not soft, not light, but a rumble in his throat. “I thought – “ and he didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
I thought this was home.
Except it couldn’t be, because he’d watched it die.
@Seraphina
@tag | speaks
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
Sometimes he wished he was.Instead of claiming to feel and hear vestiges, their voices, their sounds, their moments of glory, and their maddening instances of defeat. Sometimes he yearned to be the one succumbed, so they still had beating hearts and blissful lives, and maybe he could alone in the sepulchers, watching them from afar. They would’ve been committed to brighter, better ambitions, blistering ambitions set in the familial brow – with gnashing teeth and clenching jaws and stalwart commitments. Sometimes he thought of rampaging through devastation and ruin all over again, simply so he could join them, and never be alone. For some days the determination was worn, and the fire had turned to cinders, cold and afraid, ashen and barren, endeavors inept and ineffectual. For he was searching for things he could never have, and until someone told him, until someone screamed it in his face and against his soul, he’d keep looking, keep waiting, keep watching – for a glimmer, a sign, of something more than faith. Even that, at some point, had to become tangible.
He didn’t see the bird. He didn’t see anything at all – not with his eyes shut and his remnants all but abandoned, a press of a knife down the back of his throat. The aches and pains were familiar, residual, from when he pushed too far. The inward ones were too, a different mark of scars and lacerations, chiseled, sculpted, and carved on the back of his ribs, from where everything hurt but he couldn’t permit his face to wear the onslaught, the misery, or the anguish. His sides slowed, lungs and nares absorbing the much-needed air, but his wings remained unmoving, as if the effort were too great for now.
The boy would give it some time before trying again. Before flying into the sky and leaving everything behind. Before following traces and filaments that weren’t real. Before giving up – but gods, it was tempting and enticing to lay upon the ground, to wait for it to absorb him.
Another maneuvered nearby; the instinctual twitch of his ears caught the sensations of movement in the sand, and he should’ve reacted instantly. He should’ve hoisted himself up quickly, swiftly, in case this being was a threat, and he was the next target (that’s how demons and monsters worked; he knew, he’d escaped them all).
But he didn’t try this time. Maybe he’d let them take him, consume him whole, flesh and bone, and the ache in his heart would cease.
A soft voice followed, and he opened one crimson eye to land upon another wholly unfamiliar. A glimpse of silver, of argent, of ivory laden amidst the snow, and the lid fell again, lashes pressed against his cheek. He thought about lying, like he’d always done before. Yes. Of course I’m all right. Then they’d leave him alone, and he’d be free to carry on, to drift aimlessly, an unrelenting force of nothing. But the deception stuck to his tongue, and veracity slipped forth instead, changing, changing, changing, for he had naught else to do. “No.” A pause, another intake of breath, the inhale not soft, not light, but a rumble in his throat. “I thought – “ and he didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
I thought this was home.
Except it couldn’t be, because he’d watched it die.
@
OF NOUGHT BUT EARTH CAN EARTH MAKE US PARTAKER,
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.
