Tue Mar 25, 2003 2:10 pm
You can be so much more than you are.
Potential and the capacity for it, possibility: opportunity. He’d heard those words at previous times in his life, but never uttered with such vigour before. The Elven woman had a way of uttering words that made them feel as palpable as a touch. Even now as he made his way from Myrken, and from the gaol, the cool kiss of the wind, tugging fabric against his skin held the same chill as her touch.
Doors are being closed, Dragon.
Her words whispered at him again, beholden with the inherent nature of finality, but he doubted their veracity, for all that she believed she was telling the truth. He wanted to rage, he wanted to rage at the world, at the unfairness, at the lack of understanding, at their inability to see. Yes, he’d made a mistake, a mistake an error of judgement in committing his heart to such a thing, of placing his claim upon one so afraid of heat.
And they are locking them behind you.
Every action had consequences, repercussions, and he’d not thought of these. Milia had struck him, hard, and told him that he deserved so much more. Both Tyralor and Arkista had told him that he was a blind fool, in so many words. Not blind, just with vision skewed by the totality of his devotion and desire, he did nothing by halves. Fix it, fix it as though it were something that were broken, and that must be pulled apart and repaired.
They don’t see, they don’t understand.
Words interwoven with the seductive pleasure of the flesh, until night had faded, and the moon had been cast within it’s own shadow, and they weighed upon his mind now, with persistence dredged by his own confusion, by his loneliness. None of them understood, none of them ever understood. The only one who understood, and accepted was Solena – and they’d taken her away. Davak, Karaive, no doubt, taken the elfling, spirited her to somewhere he could not reach. It was not as bad as when she went to visit Tehridel, and the bond was so faint he could barely feel it. He could feel the slight thudding of her heart, in time with his own, but he did not know where, or how to find it, and it told him nothing. Nothing, aside from the fact that she was alive, which was better than nothing at all.
They cut, and you bleed Dragon.
Anger scorn, and they were easily met and matched by his own, their righteous self-indignation at what he was, who he was, and what he’d done, their inability to understand that some good had come from it, that he was not malicious in his intentions, that it was not all his fault. But they believed it otherwise, they blamed him, for what he had done, for passions that had been exposed, for heat that had stoked to impossible depths. He wanted to be angry, furious at them, and if he were confronted directly, he knew that he would be, but now, now he mourned the possibilities, but most of all, he mourned the distance.
They will not let you be, they will push, oppress and trap you once again.
They would, and the heat would rise, and the anger, the rage would be monumental. He had been granted surcease from it for the span of days, after Seranos’ touch had drawn it from within, but it had returned at the unknown machinations of Mephisto. He wanted a world with none of them in it. He wanted that retreat, that clearing where his footsteps drew him now in his travels, and he wanted the company that he’d shared here.
He came to a halt, and circled around, winter had never grasped here, and for all that barriers and his own lingering heat had an effect upon the environment, it was blending together with the birth of spring, and soon, soon there would be no sign that they were ever here. He paced around the flattened grass, lowering into a crouch, and brushing fingertips upon the widened circle of ground-covering that was shorter than it surrounding. He and Rielle had done that, had burnt the very landscape itself with their combined heat.
And there, to the left, blood had been shed, his, Solena’s, and the creation, the vozhd of the Tzimisce, Vardoj, when they had seen to it’s slaughter, the earth was no longer stained with the remains of it’s decomposition, of the fire that had sealed it’s doom, caused it to tumble shrieking and burning, smoking to the ground. It always came back to that, everything came back to that.
I can feel your heat Dragon, and it yearns to be free.
It was meant to be about freedom, meant to be about release, trust and longing, but it had shifted, warped beneath good intentions, those that they said paved the road to hell, and now nothing was as it was meant to be. And this clearing, this sanctuary, it was empty, and he stood alone within it, bereft before it. The line of his mouth wavered, and jaw tensed beneath the pressure within, and eyes once again were drawn with moisture, and his hand lifted upwards, fingers and thumb pressing against lids as they fell closed, denying it. He hadn’t wanted any of it to happen like this.
If you do not release it, it will consume you.
A wracked and broken sound, that sob which emerged from deep within his chest, from a heart that verged upon breaking, and he dropped forwards to his knees, body curling against itself, hands seeking the earth, and pressing against the grass, and digging at the muddy flesh beneath. Broad shoulders wavered in their definition, and a ragged gasped breath was drawn inwards, as forwards momentum was continued, as abdomen settled to the tops of thighs, and chest to beyond knees, and forehead against the grass, and the tears leaked freely.
Hot, they were, and the greenery wilted before the temperature, though he was not aware of it against the lingering heat of his own flesh, as they streamed downwards, their damage went unseen before the burning ache inside of him, that no amount of tears would be able to purge.