when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
He doesn’t reject the idea that the whole of his existence was based on others using him. What would he be, then, if not the sharp sword beneath the cloak? There’s power to be had in assuming the role of the fist that beats the face to a bloody pulp, almost satisfaction if one could stomach all manner of things horrible and grotesque. Power in it - yes, freedom from it - no. A boulder must be wielded in order to crush a skull, a pen held and guided for a story to be written. This, then, is why he materializes (quite literally) from the dense of the wood to watch her.
He should not go, yet he does.
There’s an air of memory in the moment; Wyrm trades his signature green for a familiar ivory-and-smoke skin. Across his back rests a common pair of gilded, brown-barred wings and locks of dark teak tumble over an aquiline nose to add shade to his otherwise glimmering, green eyes. Each black footfall pressed new indentions into the fresh snow, the sting of winter kisses hardly felt through his plush fur as he glides, ethereal, to where Epithet waits in the Meadow.
“Dear Heartfire,” He thinks silently, alighting pewter colored lips on Epithet’s warm cheek. “save me.”
He draws back. “I remember the first time I saw you out in the snow.” The stallion sighs, a lazy smirk working to transform his attitude. “So peaceful.” He reflects, peering up into the predawn grey of the sky. For a moment, the silence is all that surrounds them; pregnant with unspoken admissions it weighs heavily on the creature’s shoulders. “How can I help you?” He submits finally, drawing those startling eyes back to where her lovely face waits for him. Every line and curve is embedded behind his pale lids now.
Heartfire is nowhere to be seen.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
@[Epithet]
