06-19-2016, 12:49 AM
BROTHER, LET ME BE YOUR FORTRESS, WHEN THE NIGHT WINDS ARE DRIVING ON.
I CAN BE THE ONE TO LIGHT YOUR WAY; I WILL BRING YOU HOME.
Wanderlust, too, has been etched into his every movement, into his every breath. He has spent so much more time on this Earth than she, though she was none the wiser - and for the entirety of his days, he had remained a wanderer, restless and searching for an escape. For death. He had been the very epitome of wanderlust; a ceaseless figure blending into the backdrop of time - meaningless existence in motion, lost within the creeping branches of his own mind. Many of those years remained a blur of angst, sorrow and suffering. He had spent it alone, seeking, rotting from within with an aching loneliness that not many had ever experienced .. and the emotional wounds it had left behind still burnt to the touch, still seethed like a festering wound beneath the stoic, yet demure demeanor of the great ice King.
He understood her better than she knew, but he could not and would not say. He had concealed his past from her thus far, and he could not unveil his truth to her now. She knew him as a single, uncomplicated layer - a statuesque expectation of solemn calm and serenity. He need not expose her to the blistering, infected wound of his heart and mind now. He watches her, his crimson gaze scathing as he travels along the length of her body, admiring the way she curves and bends, aching for the swell of her belly - he had missed the birth of his second child with her, and this aches in a way he did not anticipate. The echoes of her self-loathing linger in the icy air, and his breath mimics its presence. He has begun to bristle again, shards of thick ice encasing his coal-painted pelt as his taut tendrils of hair weave with ice crystals.
She confesses that she should not have gone, not without a whispered word, but what digs into the depths of his pulsating heart is the way she denounces herself as a mother, something she was always meant to be. He recoils, slightly, knowing his tone and words had cut too deeply then. He had been angry - he was still angry, seething with rage beneath his icy surface - but in spite of her hanging flesh wounds, in spite of his limping and wounded children, he would never see her as anything less than what she has always been to him. In a moment of spite, of aching hurt and panic, he had lashed out, and the wounds he had cut were too deep to stitch together again.
"That is not what I mean, and you know it." He says tersely, realizing for the first time since seeing her that he has hardly breathed, that every muscle is stiff and taut and firm with worry and fury and pain. Still, he cannot breathe with her drawing away from him, pushing away from him. She confesses she loves him, and he does not flinch. His heart does not pound as it had, nor does his blood pump more heavily through his veins. Her words feel empty, meaningless, followed by a subtle threat that he could never keep her trapped as the caged bird she inevitably feels that she is.
He feels torn apart, split open by these quiet but telling words; the very carbonate makings of his rib cage split in two as he is flayed before her by her words. He had never wanted to keep her locked away in this ivory tower of ice and snow, and yet there was some piece of her wary of his intentions, certain that there was some small part of him that was attempting to. His crimson gaze studies her as she begins to shift painfully towards him, but he flinches now, his skin taut and aching to push away from the proximity of her touch, though he does not. You have always been enough, Offspring, but he knows this to be a lie. I will always come back to you, but her gaping wounds, which reek of metallic blood and flood his mind with the idea of her bloodied carcass left half-consumed in the midst of a quiet field.
She touches him now, her nose pressing to the corner of his mouth and now his thick lashes close over his dark eyes. He breathes her scent, which still lingers beneath the sweat, filth and blood, and she gives herself to him, but he cannot push himself to give in return. Rather, his searing red eyes open and he eyes the open wound at the base of her neck. He reaches and delicately, he touches his nose to the split skin and fatty tissue that hangs, threatening her very well-being with its promise of infection and suppurating death. He brushes his nose along the length of this gash, and a surge of ice begins to dwell at the flat of his nose. His breath is as icy as his touch as he seals her wound with delicate crystals, and though they are heavy and burning against her open skin, they begin to mend the split and broken tissue. Ceasing blood loss, renewing dying cells and sewing peeled and skin flesh together, he mends her, while he himself is left with the unseen lesion her words and actions have left behind.
He pulls away now, the entirety of his massive, towering body covered in thick planes of ice - his very eyelashes are now dusted in frost, and his eyes no longer burn a longing red - but a telling, powerful icy blue.
"I have never asked you not to wander, Isle," He murmurs now, his breath a drifting cloud of carbon dioxide against the freezing atmosphere. "I have only asked that you tell me when and where you have gone. You do not know me at all, this much is clear. Go, rest." He says dismissively, his heart aching still. He cannot keep her, this he knows, and he was a fool to think she would ever be content by his side.
He understood her better than she knew, but he could not and would not say. He had concealed his past from her thus far, and he could not unveil his truth to her now. She knew him as a single, uncomplicated layer - a statuesque expectation of solemn calm and serenity. He need not expose her to the blistering, infected wound of his heart and mind now. He watches her, his crimson gaze scathing as he travels along the length of her body, admiring the way she curves and bends, aching for the swell of her belly - he had missed the birth of his second child with her, and this aches in a way he did not anticipate. The echoes of her self-loathing linger in the icy air, and his breath mimics its presence. He has begun to bristle again, shards of thick ice encasing his coal-painted pelt as his taut tendrils of hair weave with ice crystals.
She confesses that she should not have gone, not without a whispered word, but what digs into the depths of his pulsating heart is the way she denounces herself as a mother, something she was always meant to be. He recoils, slightly, knowing his tone and words had cut too deeply then. He had been angry - he was still angry, seething with rage beneath his icy surface - but in spite of her hanging flesh wounds, in spite of his limping and wounded children, he would never see her as anything less than what she has always been to him. In a moment of spite, of aching hurt and panic, he had lashed out, and the wounds he had cut were too deep to stitch together again.
"That is not what I mean, and you know it." He says tersely, realizing for the first time since seeing her that he has hardly breathed, that every muscle is stiff and taut and firm with worry and fury and pain. Still, he cannot breathe with her drawing away from him, pushing away from him. She confesses she loves him, and he does not flinch. His heart does not pound as it had, nor does his blood pump more heavily through his veins. Her words feel empty, meaningless, followed by a subtle threat that he could never keep her trapped as the caged bird she inevitably feels that she is.
He feels torn apart, split open by these quiet but telling words; the very carbonate makings of his rib cage split in two as he is flayed before her by her words. He had never wanted to keep her locked away in this ivory tower of ice and snow, and yet there was some piece of her wary of his intentions, certain that there was some small part of him that was attempting to. His crimson gaze studies her as she begins to shift painfully towards him, but he flinches now, his skin taut and aching to push away from the proximity of her touch, though he does not. You have always been enough, Offspring, but he knows this to be a lie. I will always come back to you, but her gaping wounds, which reek of metallic blood and flood his mind with the idea of her bloodied carcass left half-consumed in the midst of a quiet field.
She touches him now, her nose pressing to the corner of his mouth and now his thick lashes close over his dark eyes. He breathes her scent, which still lingers beneath the sweat, filth and blood, and she gives herself to him, but he cannot push himself to give in return. Rather, his searing red eyes open and he eyes the open wound at the base of her neck. He reaches and delicately, he touches his nose to the split skin and fatty tissue that hangs, threatening her very well-being with its promise of infection and suppurating death. He brushes his nose along the length of this gash, and a surge of ice begins to dwell at the flat of his nose. His breath is as icy as his touch as he seals her wound with delicate crystals, and though they are heavy and burning against her open skin, they begin to mend the split and broken tissue. Ceasing blood loss, renewing dying cells and sewing peeled and skin flesh together, he mends her, while he himself is left with the unseen lesion her words and actions have left behind.
He pulls away now, the entirety of his massive, towering body covered in thick planes of ice - his very eyelashes are now dusted in frost, and his eyes no longer burn a longing red - but a telling, powerful icy blue.
"I have never asked you not to wander, Isle," He murmurs now, his breath a drifting cloud of carbon dioxide against the freezing atmosphere. "I have only asked that you tell me when and where you have gone. You do not know me at all, this much is clear. Go, rest." He says dismissively, his heart aching still. He cannot keep her, this he knows, and he was a fool to think she would ever be content by his side.
OFFSPRING
the ice king of the tundra