07-06-2017, 09:29 AM
you can have my isolation,
you can have the hate that it brings.
you can have the hate that it brings.
The heat is stifling against his skin, with humidity hot and slick against the puckered pink scarring that lay strewn across the blank canvas of his form – but he does not flinch; not as he once might have. No longer does he pine for the frigidity of winter, nor its spindly fingers touching the surface of his skin, soothing the embers flickering deep inside of him. The everlasting burn of the growing fire trapped within his chest, enveloping his lungs with every rise and fall of his steady breathing, plucking at his heartstrings with every perpetual beat of his heart – it is as much a part of him as the thick lining of sinewy muscle in his body.
Yet, the memories would always stir a yearning that could never be realized – he longed for more than the ice and the snow; he longed for the brotherhood (and, eventually, sisterhood) – a time when life seemed simpler, even with the roiling tension between age-old kingdoms, fighting the bitter battles of their ancestors with little cause or reason aside from the understanding that it should simply be. The loss of his power had been devastating to him – the ice had been his own, to wield and to covet, and it had been stripped away from him, and spitefully so – and then, his kingdom had been taken, twisted and broken and fallen away into the sea.
Everything he had ever known had been torn apart, buried somewhere he could never reach – he, too, a man of two centuries, had difficulty swallowing change. It had been a painful and bitter, acrid bile to swallow, one that in times, beneath the darkest shadow of night, is still difficult to understand and comprehend. And yet, he had been blessed – gifted a volcanic isle that had become a symbol of so much more.
Rebirth.
The sulfur and the ash cling tightly to his skin, marred and mottled with faded, pink scarring, as the heavy muscles beneath his taut skin ripples with each sweeping movement. He had seen him the moment he had emerged through the distant haze, with the salty brine of the sea enveloping him in its ravenous current – he had always been acutely aware of his surroundings, but his newfound refined vision had become something of an asset to him. He had seen him from many miles away, and with a gentle breeze weaving its way through his thick, tangled tresses, he is jaunting towards him.
The ground is soft, and supple, but it does not give beneath his hefty weight as each long stride carries him closer to the shoreline. His heart is pounding wildly against his rib cage, as he soon reduces his pace into a jaunt, with a thin sheen of sweat gleaming on the surface of his skin beneath the bright, unyielding sun.
He is a sight for sore eyes, and some part of him he had thought forgotten, or perhaps gone, is stirred to the forefront – and as his dark, searing eyes seek the abyss of Hurricane’s, he realizes then that a piece of home had come back to him.
”Brother,” he utters, his voice gruff from disuse, while his lungs expand to catch his breath. ”you’ve come – welcome to Tephra.”
Yet, the memories would always stir a yearning that could never be realized – he longed for more than the ice and the snow; he longed for the brotherhood (and, eventually, sisterhood) – a time when life seemed simpler, even with the roiling tension between age-old kingdoms, fighting the bitter battles of their ancestors with little cause or reason aside from the understanding that it should simply be. The loss of his power had been devastating to him – the ice had been his own, to wield and to covet, and it had been stripped away from him, and spitefully so – and then, his kingdom had been taken, twisted and broken and fallen away into the sea.
Everything he had ever known had been torn apart, buried somewhere he could never reach – he, too, a man of two centuries, had difficulty swallowing change. It had been a painful and bitter, acrid bile to swallow, one that in times, beneath the darkest shadow of night, is still difficult to understand and comprehend. And yet, he had been blessed – gifted a volcanic isle that had become a symbol of so much more.
Rebirth.
The sulfur and the ash cling tightly to his skin, marred and mottled with faded, pink scarring, as the heavy muscles beneath his taut skin ripples with each sweeping movement. He had seen him the moment he had emerged through the distant haze, with the salty brine of the sea enveloping him in its ravenous current – he had always been acutely aware of his surroundings, but his newfound refined vision had become something of an asset to him. He had seen him from many miles away, and with a gentle breeze weaving its way through his thick, tangled tresses, he is jaunting towards him.
The ground is soft, and supple, but it does not give beneath his hefty weight as each long stride carries him closer to the shoreline. His heart is pounding wildly against his rib cage, as he soon reduces his pace into a jaunt, with a thin sheen of sweat gleaming on the surface of his skin beneath the bright, unyielding sun.
He is a sight for sore eyes, and some part of him he had thought forgotten, or perhaps gone, is stirred to the forefront – and as his dark, searing eyes seek the abyss of Hurricane’s, he realizes then that a piece of home had come back to him.
”Brother,” he utters, his voice gruff from disuse, while his lungs expand to catch his breath. ”you’ve come – welcome to Tephra.”
you can have my absence of faith,
you can have my everything.
you can have my everything.
OFFSPRING