It's warm here, he thinks, shifting his earthy head against soft sand. Thick, raven locks of wavy hair, snag against the grains. Unruly mane pushing and pulling the soft ground, it gives way, clinging to the cords and curls. No, not warm, it's not cold either, it isn't anything.
When he opens his eyes, two spheres pale as sea glass, there is a beach of silver beneath him. The color of it, he had known it once, a stranger to the land, uninvited, but those thoughts are fuzzy, unclear. Around him, there is just sand, the rush of waves on a shoal, a rhythmic rise and fall of the sea. Black nostrils flare, the scent of fire surrounds him, but he sees no flame- the heady aroma something he is unable to assign a source.
For a time, he does look for it, the cause of the smell, fading away, then clawing back into existence as he moved. The weight of his mass, sends the granules beneath him, swaying easily- cupping his heavy feet, footprints along the shoreline as he paces. Head to sky, nose to air, and is there no breeze in this place?
Direction, he’s walking in circles, returning to where he started and he knows he has- those are his marks before him now.
“Malis?” he asks, as though this was some foggy sleep dream, and soon he would wake to her soft breathing. His eyes would open to the vivid indigo of her skin, each curve swiftly falling into place, just where they should be, just as he had memorized them for all these years.
No answer comes, nor do his pale eyes snap open, the familiarity of the Chamber blanketing him in security. A greenhouse to those lost souls he had harbored within her, monsters, those that could not be tamed- misplaced and misunderstood creatures. There were no pines, spreading needles to the earth like wool on the tender skin of a lamb. Nor panthers lurking in the shadows, growling threats at the base of the mountains, their hearts thrumming deep beneath the surface of the Kingdom. The ravens did not caw incessantly in the boughs, harbingers of solidarity.
Killdare did not wake, because he was not asleep, not at all.
It is now that he takes in the vast emptiness of it all, no stone walls, nor trees to block the view- not that there is one to be had. The barren horizon, the sunless, moonless sky. The quiet and still hour, the unhurried perfection. It is now that he knows his fate, finding a heavy breath in his chest and exhaling- not realizing he had been holding it in.
“What kind of death is this?” He asks, the rich baritone of his voice coming in angry syllables, burning hot and red as they fall from his sable lips- his tone was so cross, wrathful.
When he opens his eyes, two spheres pale as sea glass, there is a beach of silver beneath him. The color of it, he had known it once, a stranger to the land, uninvited, but those thoughts are fuzzy, unclear. Around him, there is just sand, the rush of waves on a shoal, a rhythmic rise and fall of the sea. Black nostrils flare, the scent of fire surrounds him, but he sees no flame- the heady aroma something he is unable to assign a source.
For a time, he does look for it, the cause of the smell, fading away, then clawing back into existence as he moved. The weight of his mass, sends the granules beneath him, swaying easily- cupping his heavy feet, footprints along the shoreline as he paces. Head to sky, nose to air, and is there no breeze in this place?
Direction, he’s walking in circles, returning to where he started and he knows he has- those are his marks before him now.
“Malis?” he asks, as though this was some foggy sleep dream, and soon he would wake to her soft breathing. His eyes would open to the vivid indigo of her skin, each curve swiftly falling into place, just where they should be, just as he had memorized them for all these years.
No answer comes, nor do his pale eyes snap open, the familiarity of the Chamber blanketing him in security. A greenhouse to those lost souls he had harbored within her, monsters, those that could not be tamed- misplaced and misunderstood creatures. There were no pines, spreading needles to the earth like wool on the tender skin of a lamb. Nor panthers lurking in the shadows, growling threats at the base of the mountains, their hearts thrumming deep beneath the surface of the Kingdom. The ravens did not caw incessantly in the boughs, harbingers of solidarity.
Killdare did not wake, because he was not asleep, not at all.
It is now that he takes in the vast emptiness of it all, no stone walls, nor trees to block the view- not that there is one to be had. The barren horizon, the sunless, moonless sky. The quiet and still hour, the unhurried perfection. It is now that he knows his fate, finding a heavy breath in his chest and exhaling- not realizing he had been holding it in.
“What kind of death is this?” He asks, the rich baritone of his voice coming in angry syllables, burning hot and red as they fall from his sable lips- his tone was so cross, wrathful.
killdare
we'll go down in history, remember me, for centuries
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@Malis