06-27-2017, 03:31 PM
you can have my isolation,
you can have the hate that it brings.
you can have the hate that it brings.
The tension in the air is thicker than the humidity, stifling and suffocating – electricity crackling within the darkness of two wayward beings, smoldering from within, burning from inside. He had not seen in son in too long (time is reckless and unyielding; it waits for no one) – he had been only a boy when his wanderlust had struck, longing to see what lay beyond the border of the rising sea, aching to be anywhere but the volcanic island – as most children are wont to do. He had let him go, knowing how hot the fire that burn beneath the surface stirred him into restlessness (he knew because he felt it, too – scalding, urging him away from the shadows).
Yet now, he is carved of muscle, bone and surging testosterone – caught somewhere between his youth and inevitable maturity, with a slenderer build than he, but with the distinct feathering of his father and mottled coloring of his mother. He was the flawless product of his lineage. Strong, powerful, yet agile – he can see so much of Isle on the surface, but there is a darkness within him that is more like the shadow of his own. He is his son, through and through.
Uncertainty is not only felt by him – he can see it in his posture (rigid, terse – coiled muscle beneath taut skin), feel it exuding from him in slow but steady pulses, as rhythmic as his own heartbeat, pounding solidly within the hearth of his chest.
His son touches him, but it is a far cry from the quiet colt that had nestled against him for warmth. Ephemeral.
And then he speaks, his voice low – much lower than he had remembered – his mismatched eyes boring into his own, glowing like lit coal, and he is quiet, listening.
A precarious position, he utters carefully, but honestly. Bluntly. His own cheek is turned towards the rumbling volcano that lay settled in the distance, off to the eastern shore. He settles one single, roving eye upon him, studying the way his own uncertainty has crawled its way into the marrow of his bones, and beneath a façade of strength and confidence, he can see the shadow of the boy he once was.
Hyaline burned two nights ago - the confession is heavy in the air; more difficult to swallow than the thickened ash or sulfur lingering in the tepid atmosphere. I’m willing to earn my keep (let me stay, let me be home) and I’m not asking for protection, he is quick to say, but there is doubt swelling within the void of his chest – but his stern features remain solemn, feigning stoicism.
”You burnt Hyaline,” he says – a statement; a truth he already knows. ”what for, Levi?What purpose did it serve? And to what degree did you burn it?”
Recklessness, and his eyes flash, the fire stoking from within.
”You might not be asking for protection, but if I permit you to stay, you will be under my watch, and thus, I must protect you.”
My son, he doesn’t say.
”You have much to learn.”
He pauses, contemplating.
”You know that I would not – could not turn my back on you,” he murmurs quietly, a flame touching the surface of his skin and crawling the length of his spine. ”but I will not tolerate insolence within my kingdom, least of not from my son. You will earn your keep, as you promise, and harm no other. So long as you do that, you will have Tephra to call your own.”
Yet now, he is carved of muscle, bone and surging testosterone – caught somewhere between his youth and inevitable maturity, with a slenderer build than he, but with the distinct feathering of his father and mottled coloring of his mother. He was the flawless product of his lineage. Strong, powerful, yet agile – he can see so much of Isle on the surface, but there is a darkness within him that is more like the shadow of his own. He is his son, through and through.
Uncertainty is not only felt by him – he can see it in his posture (rigid, terse – coiled muscle beneath taut skin), feel it exuding from him in slow but steady pulses, as rhythmic as his own heartbeat, pounding solidly within the hearth of his chest.
His son touches him, but it is a far cry from the quiet colt that had nestled against him for warmth. Ephemeral.
And then he speaks, his voice low – much lower than he had remembered – his mismatched eyes boring into his own, glowing like lit coal, and he is quiet, listening.
A precarious position, he utters carefully, but honestly. Bluntly. His own cheek is turned towards the rumbling volcano that lay settled in the distance, off to the eastern shore. He settles one single, roving eye upon him, studying the way his own uncertainty has crawled its way into the marrow of his bones, and beneath a façade of strength and confidence, he can see the shadow of the boy he once was.
Hyaline burned two nights ago - the confession is heavy in the air; more difficult to swallow than the thickened ash or sulfur lingering in the tepid atmosphere. I’m willing to earn my keep (let me stay, let me be home) and I’m not asking for protection, he is quick to say, but there is doubt swelling within the void of his chest – but his stern features remain solemn, feigning stoicism.
”You burnt Hyaline,” he says – a statement; a truth he already knows. ”what for, Levi?What purpose did it serve? And to what degree did you burn it?”
Recklessness, and his eyes flash, the fire stoking from within.
”You might not be asking for protection, but if I permit you to stay, you will be under my watch, and thus, I must protect you.”
My son, he doesn’t say.
”You have much to learn.”
He pauses, contemplating.
”You know that I would not – could not turn my back on you,” he murmurs quietly, a flame touching the surface of his skin and crawling the length of his spine. ”but I will not tolerate insolence within my kingdom, least of not from my son. You will earn your keep, as you promise, and harm no other. So long as you do that, you will have Tephra to call your own.”
you can have my absence of faith,
you can have my everything.
you can have my everything.
OFFSPRING
@[Levi]