watch your tongue or have it cut from your head,
save your life by keeping whispers unsaid.

   Change. It flows endlessly through the charred valley, lacing itself between the fallen ashes and brittle remains. It fills the thick air with a stench of death and rebirth, enveloping the land with its complexity. The once vibrant, stunning topography now lie in ruins, burnt and incinerated by the overzealous, violent sins of many. Blood once painted the land in dark crimson, though it had now faded to a dried sienna, blending in with the dried brush and moist clay. There were bones lying around at every turn; the dilapidated and decomposing pieces of those who once lived and breathed as he does now. He inhales the air, tasting its rot and letting it roll over his tongue as he peers out from beneath the fragile branches of a leaning oak. His compound eyes cannot see the entire expanse in a single glance, but he can see and hear and feel the difference in the soil, in the air, in himself. 

   War has painted the land with its gruesome reality, with broad strokes of brutality and carelessness. He did not care for war himself, and he found himself immensely grateful to have not lost anyone in the midst. Not yet, at least. His heart ached and throbbed within his breastplate as he thought back to the lavender-tinted female he'd crushed beneath his weight. There was not a day that went by that it did not cross his mind. It always haunted him, crawling into his head, swimming in the pit of his ear and seeping into his bones. Murderer. For what cause? A good one, he had convinced himself at one time, but he was not entirely certain of that anymore.

   He spots two young figures bound across the sunlit plain, their playful, giddy antics kicking up the burnt soil beneath their limbs. He observes them - his winged daughter and her beautiful sister, and he cannot hide the faint smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. He finds he has very little glee to cling on to now, but the adoration of his sweet Speck and the affection of their gentle, beloved daughters is enough to ward off the longing that fills him to the brim some days.

   Descending from the bridge of a hill, he approaches, though his children do not notice. Too immersed in their childlike games, he takes this rare moment of privacy to brush the length of his body against that of his lover's, his lips tasting the salty, sweet scent of her withers as he nibbles gently. He inhales her familiar scent of fauna and he is sated for the moment, lingering alongside her as his kisses trail along her neck and jaw. His sweet, kind Speck - she is such a remarkable fixture in his life, and he holds onto her tightly. Life is too fragile. Time does not heal all wounds.  He aches, his proverbial neck wrecked with whiplash from recent events. 

   Change was beginning to suffocate him, but he would hold steadfast - if not for himself, for his family. For Demian, and his family. There was no other option.

   "They are beautiful, our daughters," He murmurs quietly, his eyes lingering on the broze beauty beside him, taking a moment to softly lip her uniquely painted tresses. "just like their mother."

  

elysium

no mercy from the edge of the blade,
dare escape and learn the price to be paid.