09-13-2021, 05:06 PM
oh, you said life was much better than this
The death of adoration is what eventually sealed Lannister’s fate. He was once a dreaming boy, a loving boy, a boy with such dedication and admiration for his father that Elio was all he could see—dream or reality. There was once a time that he would walk through fire for his father, up-end the entire universe and all of its realities to find him.
But that bitterness of abandonment, that entrapment. He was shackled, pillars of magic keeping him tied to the endless, cloudy dreams of strangers.
Perhaps he was always damned.
A child as a gift. What kind of fate could Elio have truly wished for his son?
Lannister is glad to be rid of it, even as the terror tires every muscle in his body. He blinks at Cressida, that quiet, fearful understanding melting into something molten—something that feels so real it burns his eyes.
“The Forest,” Lannister parrots Cressida, still not fully capable of forming the kind of thoughts that foster conversation. He blinks at her again, then: “Cressida.” He peers intently now, rain cloud eyes searching for some answer the moon-weaver might be able to give him. Lan sucks in a breath, casting apprehensive eyes over their moonlit surroundings.
“I’m Lannister,” he finally murmurs, returning the molten gaze back to Cressida. “Thank you, Cressida. I would . . . love to talk,” Lan adds, holding his eyes steadily to hers. “But I don’t know where to begin. Dreams, I guess. My father told me I was borne of a dream. I’ve been stuck there ever since.” He swallows.
“You were born here, Cressida? In Beqanna?” That uncertainty colors his voice even as twin flames burn in his stare.
But that bitterness of abandonment, that entrapment. He was shackled, pillars of magic keeping him tied to the endless, cloudy dreams of strangers.
Perhaps he was always damned.
A child as a gift. What kind of fate could Elio have truly wished for his son?
Lannister is glad to be rid of it, even as the terror tires every muscle in his body. He blinks at Cressida, that quiet, fearful understanding melting into something molten—something that feels so real it burns his eyes.
“The Forest,” Lannister parrots Cressida, still not fully capable of forming the kind of thoughts that foster conversation. He blinks at her again, then: “Cressida.” He peers intently now, rain cloud eyes searching for some answer the moon-weaver might be able to give him. Lan sucks in a breath, casting apprehensive eyes over their moonlit surroundings.
“I’m Lannister,” he finally murmurs, returning the molten gaze back to Cressida. “Thank you, Cressida. I would . . . love to talk,” Lan adds, holding his eyes steadily to hers. “But I don’t know where to begin. Dreams, I guess. My father told me I was borne of a dream. I’ve been stuck there ever since.” He swallows.
“You were born here, Cressida? In Beqanna?” That uncertainty colors his voice even as twin flames burn in his stare.
lannister
@cressida