The sun is unbearable, its unyielding, obscene light blinding and pure. The immense, scathing heat of the midday is provoked by its radiance, causing the ground below to simmer slowly with its scalding incandescence. A single bead of sweat brushes across his youthful cheek, staining the russet hair that lay so neatly against the curve of his jawline. His nostrils flare and his chest heaves with a soft but heavy sigh, his mismatched eyes peering across the barren plain, as lengthy tendrils of wheat delicately stroke the length of his wiry legs and the soft line of his underbelly. The day is young, yet undeniably droll and without luster. It is too quiet, sans the distant echo of chirping and the quiet bubbling of a nearby brook, and he cannot shake the uneasy feeling that has since settled within the pit of his stomach.
He does not often wander so far, but there is only so much intrigue one can have in such thick, slow rivets of lava, and only so much amusement can be had from the occasional, threatening rumble from the volcanic peak itself. His father is quiet, stoic – a man of too few words, and often absent from sight. His mother is kind, gentle, and yet preoccupied with something painful he has yet to discern (something that lingers within her deep brown eyes; something he cannot name). His sister, though his closest companion, too often abandons him, leaving him to his own devices, more adventurous than he and too easily tired by his constant hesitation.
He had long since learned to keep his emotions from rising to the surface (and in turn, seemed as solemn and stoic as his own father), but she saw through him too easily. His every thought, his every memory, exposed to the elements and ripe for her relentless, merciless plucking. He could hide nothing from her, and though he had never had any reason to, he wondered if one day he would need to and simply be incapable of doing so. The mere thought of being so vulnerable, even to her, made the blood lining his veins boil over. A blistering fire burns beneath his skin at the thought, leaving his skin fiery and hot (he must control himself - a burning ember would create havoc in such conditions), though the comfort of an ancient oak’s winding branches soothes him with its draping shade.
Wary, his eyes – one brown, one red – peer around uneasily, but he is alone. He is always alone. Though a pang of forlornness causes his young heart to clench tightly within his chest, it wanes quickly. Grateful for the reprieve from the blinding summer sun, he gently presses the curve of his side against the broad base of the old oak, idly scratching his flesh against its scratchy surface, content to waste the day beneath its proverbial wing.
He does not often wander so far, but there is only so much intrigue one can have in such thick, slow rivets of lava, and only so much amusement can be had from the occasional, threatening rumble from the volcanic peak itself. His father is quiet, stoic – a man of too few words, and often absent from sight. His mother is kind, gentle, and yet preoccupied with something painful he has yet to discern (something that lingers within her deep brown eyes; something he cannot name). His sister, though his closest companion, too often abandons him, leaving him to his own devices, more adventurous than he and too easily tired by his constant hesitation.
He had long since learned to keep his emotions from rising to the surface (and in turn, seemed as solemn and stoic as his own father), but she saw through him too easily. His every thought, his every memory, exposed to the elements and ripe for her relentless, merciless plucking. He could hide nothing from her, and though he had never had any reason to, he wondered if one day he would need to and simply be incapable of doing so. The mere thought of being so vulnerable, even to her, made the blood lining his veins boil over. A blistering fire burns beneath his skin at the thought, leaving his skin fiery and hot (he must control himself - a burning ember would create havoc in such conditions), though the comfort of an ancient oak’s winding branches soothes him with its draping shade.
Wary, his eyes – one brown, one red – peer around uneasily, but he is alone. He is always alone. Though a pang of forlornness causes his young heart to clench tightly within his chest, it wanes quickly. Grateful for the reprieve from the blinding summer sun, he gently presses the curve of his side against the broad base of the old oak, idly scratching his flesh against its scratchy surface, content to waste the day beneath its proverbial wing.
Levi
so scream you, out from behind the bitter ache.
@[lynx] @[Fox]
![[Image: BQLevipagedoll-DONE.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/25n6rx5J/BQLevipagedoll-DONE.png)
