 no matter what they say, I am still the king
He had lured him once – oh so long ago. Sprouting a flower amid the ghastly night of winter – a small bloom of innocence that struck a match in your curiosity. And indeed you were – like a mewling kitten that had been given its first batch of yarn. Like the first spark of flint upon stone – a fire of inquisitiveness flared inside you. How odd, you must have thought, for something so delicate to flow so freely in the dead of winter. And when Eight left, you followed rapidly – yelling throughout the forest for his lurking form. But he never came, and you never found him. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. Like he had teased you with the possibilities of the world – of the idea of growing something out of nothing, of making life from death - and then he had left you to your own devices.
And now? Well now, everything was different. Safe to say, you had eventually left the forest once Eight had gone. Why wait for something that was surely not to come? But did you still think of it? That brief moment of time where things were suspended, where the rules of the world did not matter – where flowers could brim up from thick, wet, snow. It’s a strange thing – but Eight still remembers. The cry of your voice – almost a panicked adamancy. Eight! Wait! . And still, he walked on. And still, the echo of his name in your mouth parries around his head.
But why? Why did it strike such a cord inside of him? Why was there a twinge of regret, of almost a kind of sorrow, as he walked away from you? Perhaps it was because that was all he had ever done – walk away from the children he had fathered, not keen on raising them, loving them, guiding them. Perhaps it was because he walked away from anything he could possibly truly care for. Maybe he was simply walking away to save you – to relinquish you from the dark oil that steeped up inside his bones, of the aching feeling to torment and destruct. Perhaps he looked into your keen, curious, innocent eyes – and maybe he had felt a glow of humanity inside him. Maybe he realized it was best to save you from himself – to let you stay a child forever.
And now? Now he could not harm you. Right?
“Rome.” He finds you, soundlessly coming to a stop beside you. “You have made it out of the woods, I see.”
∞ and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in
@[Shelbi]
09-07-2016, 09:06 PM
(This post was last modified: 09-07-2016, 10:31 PM by Rome.)
he laid low the warriors of old He dreams the same dream every night.
It starts the same way always. He dreams of a cold, wintry day. He is somewhere in the dark shadows of the forest that is just at the edge of the meadow. There is a soft breeze, cold and harsh, and he shivers severely as the wind crawls up his spine. He knows, even as a young colt and now in this dream, that he is in no physical condition to be in this place—he belonged back in the sandy dunes, where the sun was warm and kind to him.
But he is here, in the dream world, dreaming the same dream (always and every night since then).
He is drawn to the sight of a small flower in the blanket of snow. It’s peculiar, especially in the time of winter. He doesn’t understand why there is a flower growing in the dead of winter—still this idea of a flower growing puzzles him. He dreams the feeling of confusion, the same feelings he felt during that time, at the statement his mother had told him once that flowers die in the winter and in the spring they grow back. Then the flower had come alive – he had been so amazed by it. The rush of excitement pumps through his body when he dreams this dream. And then there are vines, latching – he feels surprised and afraid – but then the vines start to tickle him – he laughs out loud during this moment when he sleeps.
The next part he knows, so very well, the anticipation grows so heavily in his heart at this moment.
Eight appears, and their conversation and scene are played over and over. He knows the words, the next step in the storyline. Eventually, the part he hates the most, comes to play next. The dark bay stallion pulls into the thick trees, he runs after the stallion as fast as he could (and he is quite agile considering what he is), but it wasn’t enough, it never was every time he dreams this dream. He loses the bay stallion in the cold wintry forest, and Eight is simply gone—nonexistent in this world it truly feels now.
Still to this day, he doesn’t know why he dreams the same dream every night. It has begun to tear him apart, the unknowing of what and why it always must be that dream. There seems to be no secret or hidden lesson in the dream itself either—Rome knows this because he thinks about the memory and the dream all the time. He cannot figure it out, and truthfully, he may never know the answer to it.
This dream will forever haunt him.
It haunts him right now as he stands in the meadow—recently coming down from the mountain and feeling completely lost for what he is. He is no longer the small ocelot horse (though he is still small and young) that had the cat like features and endurance that was far better than any other horses he knew. Instead, he woke up with a pair of wings. He isn’t sure how he got them, and doesn’t hate them entirely since he had always liked his mother’s wings. But everything right now seems out of order, almost chaotic like—the old kingdoms and herds are gone, except for the common lands.
Uncertain of what to do, or where to go, he stands idly in the middle of the meadow. He becomes lost in his thoughts—mixed thoughts about the dream and in the new place that somehow is still called Beqanna—as he forgets the world around him. But when his name is called out in the silence, the familiar voice alive and so vivid, pulls him away from his self-analyzing of what has happened. His eyes widen in surprise and excitement all at once at the sight of the familiar dark bay. “Eight?” He says in a deeper voice, though still childish (but he is almost a full grown adult now). “The woods?” He asks, confused and dazed by the very event happening before him. He shakes his head, trying to get ahold of himself. “I did make it out,” he says returning his nutmeg eyes to him, “but you weren’t there.” The statement is said with a sad and disappointed voice. ROME tarnished x lucrezia
no matter what they say, I am still the king
To dream would be an escape – a plight of hope (and maybe horror). To dream would be something so completely foreign to Eight; he does not dream, he does not know what lays in the dark crevices of his own mind. To dream, perhaps, would be to show Eight the very reflection of himself. To peel back the layers and show him what his heart aches for, to show him remorse for the sins he has committed, to show him the horrors of what he has done, to show him the future that lays ahead. But he does not dream – for to dream would be to escape.
But to be haunted? Yes, Eight knows that feeling well, little Rome. His whole life he has been haunted (and hunted) – his whole life has been a rotary of running from the very power in his veins. He is haunted by everything he is not. He has had kingdoms, he has started war, he has taken lives, he has created life – but he has never wanted. He has never craved a closure like you do now. He has never known the limitless bound of love, or the ever heart shredding feeling of loss, or the piquing of childlike curiosity. He is haunted by everything he will never have.
Chaos is what we all know now. The rummaging hands of Beqanna picking through your skin, plucking your traits like small flowers in a field. The chaotic reminiscence in your heart, the panicked notion that you are no longer who you were, who are you? The confusion is what encompasses the land – the rifting of kingdoms, the shellacking over traits so that you are all very much alike (the magician king included). Some are bereaved with the loss, feeling orphaned and alone in this vast, vast land. But you? You, little Rome, seem quite content as always. As pure as the evening that Eight saw you, you are still so placid, still so accepting – still so quiet amongst the chaos and dreams and haunting.
A month has passed since Beqanna had eaten herself up and all those who lived there. A month of uncertainty, of homelessness, of the complete lack of knowledge of what to do next. There is little doubt that more disruption lays on the horizon, that there is more to come from Her and Her wrath and anger. But for now? Now things were settled into place, like the flower bursting and blooming beneath the snow – the people of Beqanna were pushing through the cold shoulder that She had given them.
But you, Rome – what have you gotten yourself into? You stayed quietly in her bosom, awaking on the mountain with a pair of wings on your back, and letting yourself drift down to where all the others await. Did you know he would come find you? Did the dream of flora and tickles and chasing wake you up from your slumber, did it call you to the open snow drifts of the meadow? Did you think maybe this time I will find him?
You are older now, your body has changed (not in just the lack of ocelot-like form), but in the fact that you have filled out slightly, you have lost your childish lilt, you have grown slightly taller. You are no longer that small and fragile thing in the forest. But who is to say for your mind? The juvenile nature of it was appealing to Eight – could we even say, endearing? The fact that everything was so new and bright, that the idea of magic and fairy tales was something you held in awe. The very idea that you would chase something without knowing where you would end up.
Your reverie is not lost on Eight, and he sees the wistful fog of memory in your eyes. Little does he know (now that he’s stripped of his power) – that it is your very first meeting that is resonating like a seed in your mind.
“No. I was not. There were other places that needed me.” Eight had little reasoning to give to you, for where had Eight gone after seeing you? Who really knew. Perhaps back to the Valley, to attend as her guardian – perhaps to prepare for war and defeat Yael – perhaps he simply vanished from Beqanna, as he was wont to do.
“No frolicking for you now, hm? Simply enjoying the gifts this new land has to offer?” His eyes scan the horizon before connecting with yours once more, searching for that innocent inflection that had once been there.
∞ and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in
he laid low the warriors of old Time went on.
When Rome could not find Eight at the end of the woods, time went on. The days continued on as the sun rose up in the east and the sun set in the west. The season came and went as well. The autumn leaves fell, winter brought the cold snowflakes, spring restored life, and summer brought the heat. He became taller, filled out into more of a muscular form. He became faster and more agile than ever. But he, always and likely forever, remembered that day in the snow with Eight.
The innocence in him remained—naïve and so curious of the world around him. Rome only sought of answers, never fearing what he wanted to know. Even if the answers to his curiosity held any wickedness or bad intentions he became more curious of it. It was everything in and out, and around the world that he wanted to know. He wanted to know why, what, and how it all worked.
This magic around him, filled him constantly with wonder.
And even now, in this very mess of a situation, he still wonders at the concept of it all.
But, for now, his curiosity of the recent event in Beqanna has come to a halt. The very thing that has eaten him for days, months, and almost years, is finally standing before him. Eight stands in bones and flesh, not in blurry images of memories or dreams that only happen when he sleeps.
Rome wonders at this very moment, even standing her listening and speaking to Eight, if this is even happening. It felt more like a dream, if he was to be completely open and honest to himself. He wonders what makes this time different than any other time when he went back to the woods to look for him. What was so special about this date and time? Did the world, some magic beyond all of this, need certain events to occur before he could see Eight again?
It was all possible – this curiosity of his pushed him to believe so.
Rome thinks over the answer to where he went. He didn’t like the answer very much, but it at least filled the empty void that ate at him for all this time. “Oh,” he simply says. It was satisfying at least to know that, but Rome was not too caught up in that. He had every part of him all on Eight – the creator of the flower that bloomed in the winter. The very idea of a flower capable of doing such bothers him, eats at him to know how it happens and is capable to live without the warmth and the sun.
He laughs at his question. “I’m not sure how to with these things,” he says ruffling the wings a little. “It feels awkward.” Rome even wonders how his mother ever got used to her wings. He knows she had earned them while living in the Deserts, and even she had made it seemed easy to fly. “I don’t know if I even like them.” He says with a little frown, childlike almost. “I miss my paws… I could run so fast.” He says with a big grin, growing quickly on his lips. “You should’ve seen how faster I got every day, Eight.” His nutmeg eyes shin with brightness as he watches the magician.
ROME tarnished x lucrezia
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