I want to be happy but something inside me screams that I do not deserve it.
Forest decorates every inch of Delumine. From the outskirts to the heart of it, wood buries its roots more deeply than the gods of his home. The waters and great rains in the desert could wash them away from time to time, but they always come back. Would these trees come back as well if all of them were burned to a crisp or ripped away in a mighty tornado? Is there another, like his father, who would so desecrate the land for their plan, whatever it is, and do anything everything to achieve it?
The monks, he knows, told him that there is always great evil in the world, but without this darkness, there would be no light. Ceylon is rather fond of moonlight, starlight, the mystery, and shadow it shows. Perhaps it is because when it's dark, he can see the galaxies his skin is modeled after. They wink high above, and he imagines them colorful, he imagines solar storms raging out of control in terrifying displays of fuchsia and coral, of seafoam green and darkest teal.
His buildings are never so bright nor brilliant. Oh, but he is.
Although he does not think it so, Ceylon is a statue of gold and glory, splashed with the night sky that winks to those who pass him by. The blue of him is as lovely and soft as his mother. The rest of him is every inch his father's son, and he is a Greek Adonis, he is a Cupid shooting his bow and arrow, he is everything splendid and lovely tucked into the curves and planes, the palatial expanses between his bones, the sleek sigh of every breath, and the whisper of his skin on a winter's day.
Frost kisses his nose, it bites at him like a wolf, and he only knows to hold it gently, softly. Ceylon would pull a blanket closer, bring another candle forth, were he home. And he is not.
Ceylon may never go home again.
So he moves between the walls of stone that tower higher and higher. Sky-blue eyes follow ivy up the stone cracks and he aches to piece the palace back together again. He knows he could do it. Ceylon knows he is as skilled with a chisel and hammer as he is with anything else.
Oh, the things he would do, the things he will do! Until that time he would wait, patiently, and bide his time. He is not an impulsive creature, not so overly bold and brash as to rush in headfirst without a plan, without first knowing where exactly he was and what exactly that meant. His sister would be proud, at least, that he has learned caution, at last, under the unwavering hand that raised him.
@Andras notes. i hope this is okay ! <3
The monks, he knows, told him that there is always great evil in the world, but without this darkness, there would be no light. Ceylon is rather fond of moonlight, starlight, the mystery, and shadow it shows. Perhaps it is because when it's dark, he can see the galaxies his skin is modeled after. They wink high above, and he imagines them colorful, he imagines solar storms raging out of control in terrifying displays of fuchsia and coral, of seafoam green and darkest teal.
His buildings are never so bright nor brilliant. Oh, but he is.
Although he does not think it so, Ceylon is a statue of gold and glory, splashed with the night sky that winks to those who pass him by. The blue of him is as lovely and soft as his mother. The rest of him is every inch his father's son, and he is a Greek Adonis, he is a Cupid shooting his bow and arrow, he is everything splendid and lovely tucked into the curves and planes, the palatial expanses between his bones, the sleek sigh of every breath, and the whisper of his skin on a winter's day.
Frost kisses his nose, it bites at him like a wolf, and he only knows to hold it gently, softly. Ceylon would pull a blanket closer, bring another candle forth, were he home. And he is not.
Ceylon may never go home again.
So he moves between the walls of stone that tower higher and higher. Sky-blue eyes follow ivy up the stone cracks and he aches to piece the palace back together again. He knows he could do it. Ceylon knows he is as skilled with a chisel and hammer as he is with anything else.
Oh, the things he would do, the things he will do! Until that time he would wait, patiently, and bide his time. He is not an impulsive creature, not so overly bold and brash as to rush in headfirst without a plan, without first knowing where exactly he was and what exactly that meant. His sister would be proud, at least, that he has learned caution, at last, under the unwavering hand that raised him.
@
Ceylon
