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Who is the real winner, though? - Printable Version

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Who is the real winner, though? - Smother - 04-09-2015

I wish I had more to life than this.
This disgusting ebony kingdom.
Burnt trees.
I wish he would tell me more about her. Tell me about how she made him feel—at the beginning… at the end—so that I could understand what she was like. Do I sound like her? Do I do things like her? Do I maybe drink water in the same awkward fashion she did? I feel like I am just a burden now. He loves me, I know he does. But did she? No. Maybe she did. Maybe all of this was something that I just never understood.
I keep pondering this thing where I can’t decide at what age it is appropriate to flee the nest. I feel as though I have been left here to figure this out on my own—independent. I want to be dependent. Doesn’t he understand? I don’t know what to do.
Like a shell I am pretty but delicate. I can be crushed under a tide or hidden beneath small grains of sand. I can amount to something pretty enough to be placed on a shelf but nothing ever strong enough to withhold my own. She is pretty, they will say, but can she fight? Well I don’t know.
Can a Spanish singer learn an English tune? Can a Frenchman learn to prefer American bread over a baguette? Does this even make sense to anyone but myself… it is why I don’t talk. I don’t chat about this. Father wouldn’t understand, mother isn’t around to be given the chance, and heaven forbid anyone else in this kingdom see others before themselves.
I have been a floating lily in a pond flourishing with pretty koi fish. They are all aggressive, eating bugs and swimming elegantly through politics like it is their every day job (for some it is). They don’t see me. They see Warship’s daughter, HER daughter; they see a yearling (hardly) splashed with chocolate hues of brown and vibrant tones of white. They see two crystal blue eyes (apparently a gift from HER)—but do they see me? Do they see Smother, yearling with no mother, girl with a introverted father. Girl with so much to live for and yet no real ambition.
Do they see… me?

RE: Who is the real winner, though? - Warship - 04-09-2015

i'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell


He wasn’t one to admit mistakes or short comings, but she had been a mistake. He had been pulled down by the undercurrent, and instead of fighting for air he had allowed the water to fill his lungs. Sinking slowly at first, and then like a stone incased in lead. Stupid, foolish, reckless…all were words he could use to describe whatever it was that had transpired between them. The Queen and The General, the typical fairy tale romance that had ended in the typical tragic fairy tale fashion. He was no Prince, and no magic kiss would have saved her from herself anyways. They had been toxic for each other, like flame to gasoline. Volatile, combustible, deadly.

But from such tragedy could often come beauty, and their tale had been no different. First, they had sought solace in each others words before eventually falling into each others bodies. It had started with a touch; tender, testing, never rushing or forcing. A touch that had spread like wildfire, and before long their was a product of their exploration. A filly, a girl made in the image of her mother. Whereas Erebor was his father made over, Smother was nearly the spitting image of her mother. She was delicate and slim, with blue eyes that peered from beneath her tangled, multicolored forelock. He raised her as good as he possibly could, but having a filly underfoot was not something he was accustomed to. She was away more often than not, and so long as he caught her scent on the winds occasionally he didn’t worry too much. Smolder was gone God only knows where, and Warship found himself not really giving a damn. After their last heated meeting in the Meadow, he couldn’t give three shits less about her at the moment. But his daughter and done nothing besides be a product of his mother and her grandmother, so he couldn’t hold that against her.

Her arrival back in the Chamber does not go unnoticed, and he finds himself stalking after her quietly. She seems thinner than usual, her mane and tail perhaps more tangled, and a look of concern crosses over his features. “Smother.” he called out, stepping from the trees and into her path. As always, he feels awkward with her, not knowing much about a filly and how their brains worked. “How have you been? You’re alright, I trust? I haven’t seen you in a long time…we’ve been missing you.” he said quietly, his dark brown eyes searching her blue ones. Did she know she had a new brother? How would he tell her? Would she hate him for it? Surely not- if nothing else, the children would have someone to play with, though Warship doubted highly that Erebor was one for foal shenanigans. Never the less, he’d like to introduce them…when the time was right. For now, he needed to see what was eating at her mind, no matter how hard the conversation would be for him.

warship



RE: Who is the real winner, though? - Smother - 04-09-2015

I know he is following me.

That is a lie.

It is. I had no idea my shadow knight was lurking beyond my sights within smoldering trees and old embers. I stop at the sound of weak leaves cringing beneath his weight and slowly turn my head. I see him like a girl sees a distant relative—there, memorable, but yet if he were to hate me I wouldn't blink twice. We have grown so apart, so distant. He is another ant in a very large colony and I cannot for the life of me make it matter.

Cry, god damn it. Hurt. Be sad.

I am a plateau. Nothing phases me like it used to. It is like my world—once vibrant and colourful—had dulled into a black and grey hue. The birds of beautiful tunes had dulled into an arrogant whine, and the elegance of a water stream had burnt to an aggravating rattle of rocks and dribbling.

I wish I could hear him think. I long for telepathy right now—let me hear you, let me feel you—though what good could that do? What scares me most is why has he come to me, what has pushed my cold father to reach out to me in a way I forgot he could.

He thinks I am unaware of secrets lingering in his mind, but I am smart.

“You wouldn't know different.” I say because it’s true, he wouldn't. He has sheltered himself in a thick layer of Leave Me Alone and I did. I ventured from his gaze, I wandered from his reach, and so he wouldn't know. I don’t mean it aggressively. I mean it exactly how it sounds; matter of fact, a sentence, a statement. Something to fill the air which has grown so uncomfortably thick.

The word “we” hurts me. I take a deep inhale in, as if the air around me is any reassurance to where this conversation is about to lead. Well, I leave for a time and a half and he already has another soul filling his heart. Was it so easy for him to forget? Was I going to be like mother, now? I flick my gaze from him in protection of myself; I would never allow him to see my insecurities.

He hasn't earned that right.

“And to whom do I owe the thanks for ‘missing’ me?” I don’t know why I ask—do I want to be sad? The question is opening my heart to daggers. It is exposing my back to a honest answer of lions growling and snarling in the back of my mind. We all have secrets, we all have something to hide; but to hear what we have to hide, it is another thing. My father and I have been breaking apart like dead ends from smooth hair. Our personalities are like the heat of a straight iron, constantly crashing and burning together until the strands of our relationship break off like brittle lies. I want to apologize—make him forget who ever made I, we.

I regret asking. I regret coming back to what I once called home.

But isn't it best to be slapped with the truth than kissed with a lie?

RE: Who is the real winner, though? - Warship - 04-09-2015

i'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell


He could, and would, take the blame for the bitter child she’s become. Perhaps he should have been there more, taken her with him on kingdom business, done the things a father is supposed to do with his daughter. But the harsh reality was he couldn’t. He didn’t know how. He was a warrior, a protector in the strongest sense of the word, but he was no father. And the truth was, to see her reminded him of her mother, and the memories of Smolder tasted nearly as sour as the memories of his own mother. (You left your own mother broken and bleeding. You fucked up what could have been a good thing with Smolder. You’re a lying bastard.) said the voices of doubt at the back of his mind. And so he’d pushed her away and built up a Berlin Wall, just tall enough that she could peak over but too tall to climb. Then he’d left her there, to grow as she saw fit, into the harsh tongued child that stood before him today.

She bled bitterness like blood. Its rotten scent permeated the air between them, and he was hard pressed not to curl his nostrils. Instead he pinned his ears at her, his own lips peeling back over his yellowed teeth. How dare she stand before him, a woman in child’s clothing, and blame him for her life. Truthfully he deserved it, needed every harsh word that she had to cut him with, but it was still a bitter pill to swallow. But soon the anger turns to sadness, both for himself and everything he hadn’t done for her. She was her mothers daughter, but she was as much his daughter too. He thought of Erebor- the prince wanted for nothing, and though his parents had never doted upon him, it was surely known that he was loved in some way. Smother had not been given that from him, but he‘d not known how. And it had been hard, looking into her tiny face and seeing only her mother staring back at him. An old mans folly. “Forgive me for asking about you’re well being. I only thought since you’re my child, and I’m the only parent you’ve ever known, save your nurse mare, that it might have been within my rights to ask.” he said, his eyes boring into hers unrelentingly. He doesn’t know where to start to rebuild the burnt bridges between them. At the shore would make the most sense, but even that has been burnt. Perhaps there is nothing left to say between them; severe ties now, and go their separate ways. Suddenly though, the words begin to tumble out and there’s nothing save for a dam that could stop them. “You look like you have more to say, and if that’s the case, then please, spit it out now. Save yourself the trouble of adding another skeleton to your closet. You can blame me for being indifferent to you, and maybe I was. I’m a warrior, Smother, not a caretaker of children. And your mother damn well knew that when she left you on the borders here, in the pouring rain, covered in after birth and crying for your life.” he said, pacing now, as the words flowed from his lips. He was agitated, like a caged cat making circles. “So while yes, I didn’t shower you in affections and bring you flowers and play chase with you, I didn’t leave you to the fucking wolves! I did my best, Smother, and I think maybe you could be grateful for that.” he yelled, his dark eyes glittering and his choked back emotions foreign to him. She was her mother made over, and could illicit the same responses out of him as Smolder could.

warship



RE: Who is the real winner, though? - Smother - 04-09-2015

Had the sun burnt red?

Instead of black, I see red. I see anger, and frustration, and angst. I feel his voice pound into me like a hammer hits a nail. I am his iron pain, his nail to unleash anger, and he will. I don’t flinch, hell I don’t even blink. He starts off soft—maybe even hurt. He starts off like he cares; like the father who was there a few months ago is here again.
I can almost feel him soften.

And then I watch as his cool demeanor turns to a stone hard pillar of aggression. His tone hits me like a blast of ice and cools me in places I never thought could get colder. My stomach feels empty and full of regret and frustration. You were never supposed to happen, I can hear him think, you are the mistake I never asked for.

He is right. I am no prize. I am bambi—young and naïve and innocent. I have nothing to amount to, I have nothing going for me. My mother is a flake, my father a monster. I am no political present for him to raise, I am no warrior in the making.

I am not a man.

I am a female—a girl he never asked for at that. This child that was just dropped off at the doorstep of his home and practically tossed at. He caught me like a child catches a ball or set of keys—don’t let it hit the floor, but don’t hold on either. He caught me, wrapped his claws around my heart because at least I had him—at least I had a dad. Then he had set me aside like a set of keys, I have caught you now, but I don’t want to hold you and keep you and use you. I did my job. You didn’t hit the floor. Thank me for not letting you hit the floor.

My nostrils flare.

He uses his position in the army as an excuse. I lick my lips in show of anxiousness and frustration—why doesn’t he see it how I do? He had done me no favour. I would have been better off soaking in a current of mud and rain water than raised how I was.

Doesn’t he see that caring for his kingdom is no different than caring for his child? He uses the excuse of being an unfit father, but I never saw him try to make best of me. I was a burden, a curse—a constant reminder of all the fuck up’s he had ever made. And how dare he be so entitled as to label his position in the army the source of our drowned relationship.

“Well. Thank God you had a child then, dad” I squeak out through choked words and a stuttered tongue. My heart feels heavy and I just want to lay down—I just want to escape whatever this is. I don’t deal with emotions, I don’t balance with common sense. I just feel, I just act. “We are in agreement, then...”

I don’t know what I am saying or why—it is all tumbling out from my mouth like a broken record skipping tracks with no ambition to stop. Let me help you dad. Let me erase your little blip in life. Let me rewrite this story for you. A man meets a woman. A woman does not conceive with said man. A man does not have a child. A man is happy.

“..I am dead to you.”