[private] pick your poison. || malis

[Offspring]

don't forget that this is a choice.
pick your poison; live with remorse.

   The sun is as bleak as it is blinding; its rays shrouded within the evening fog that has begun to settle in. Shedding its last remnants of light between dense, brittle branches, the sun begins its destined descent behind the mountain that looms off in the distance, leaving darkness in its wake. The fog does not stay at bay, soon weaving its way through the dense foliage and settling mere feet above the frigid forest floor. Gently, it laps along the hardened lines of his muscled, scarred form, which scarcely moves within the shadows aside from the occasionally drawn out shifting of his chest as he breathes. Hardened with resolve, his piercing red eyes are the only source of color as the starless night falls, and soon there is nothing left to see but dried, fallen leaves and small, residual piles of snow. 

   It is within the embrace of winter that he allows himself to falter; the memories too sweet to savor but too sour to swallow. He is not without remorse, or regret, as winter slides across his darkened skin, caressing him with its polarizing touch. It reminds him of sparse pine, of naturally carved caves and the brutality of ice. Mere memories that were no longer tangible or touchable, except only within the desolation (and desperation) of his own mind. He could still remember the way frost so gently encased his heavily muscled body, or the way it seemed to branch out from the very depths of his cracking, fragmented soul, filling every void and crevice within him with ice and snow. It was a sensation he longed to feel again, but fate had dealt him a cruel hand - where ice had once lingered, he only burned - his flesh tingling from the simmering heat that threatened to burst from within. 

   Though he had never tasted the sweet emblazoning fire that still burned within, and though he had never wielded its power, the flames continued to flicker inside, warming what had once been so frigid. The contrast of hot versus cold agitates his nerves, which dance wildly within the descending darkness, evoking a grunt of frustration from the pit of his chest. Finally, he stirs - aching to feel the still but icy air against his skin, in spite of how the fire is still stoked within by his haunting memories. 

  It is beneath the blanket of darkness that he cannot ward off the nightmares. Each one more bittersweet than the last, he can only hide away the darkest of his secrets for so long before fatigue and weariness force him to yield to sleep. Every time his heavy lids close, the fire burns again, scalding him, reminding him of the way his own searing flesh had bubbled and melted away from the sinewy tendons and hardened bones of his body. Each dream draws forth the image of the Cerberus, and the way he had so unceremoniously torn it apart, tasting its acrid, metallic blood on his tongue, leaving carnage in his wake. 

   His heart seizes in his chest at the thought of it, recalling too easily how it had tasted; his weary heart dreading the longing that always soon settled in afterwards. How sweet it had tasted.

   A shudder follows the hardened line of his spine as he pushes forward, his powerful limbs parting brittle branches which bend and break easily against the obstinate lines of his massive body. No longer could he keep these dark demons locked away, carefully tucked away within the fissures of his wise old mind, and it left him feeling isolated and enraged. No longer could he tuck himself away around the soft, curving lines of his sweet Isle, cradled against her rhythmically pounding heart, nor could he lose himself within her gentle caresses as he once had. He no longer had the strength to steel his mind away, and in the dark of the night, he often stole away from her, hiding the feverish nightmares that would inevitably follow.

   He could not subject her to his anguish; he could not let her see the slaughter he had wrought - nor the devastation he had once caused, in a memory so distant he wondered if he had simply become victim to illusions, fantasy (insanity). Unsettled, he delves deeper into the foliage that scratches painfully against his skin, reminding him he is not lost yet to the inevitable grasp of his own nightmares - until, abruptly, his heart seems to seize within his chest, leaving a strangled noise to erupt from his throat. A cloud of carbon dioxide rises in the icy night air as he exhales slowly, his bright red eyes settled on a too familiar pair of green - oh, how often had they haunted him since that fateful night? - and something undefined stirs within his chest.

   "You," he breathes. Those eyes. He knew them so well, so intimately.

   Malis.

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