kneel for no one

Usually, he was enticed by the sea, tempted by the siren waves, intoxicated by the relish of the ocean. His mother’s blood ran through his veins in a constant cycle of breathless wonder and adoration for the power, for the prestige, for the pernicious slate of the blue undulations, the rippling core, the sheer domination of its force. Most days he’d stand amidst its splendor and pretend to be its ruler, its titan, its monarch, pressing down on the current, bowing to the leagues of fish, to the ruminations of sand and silt – but that had been amidst the Endless Blue, where he could run rampant for hours and never see another being, where he could pledge allegiance to the skies, to the heavens, to the clouds, where he could nearly see the ghost of his dam in the droplets of rain, in the clashing haze. This wasn’t Helovia now, and there was too much dragging beneath the surf, a prison, an oubliette, a dungeon built for the foreign trespassers. He’d sought the scope of land simply to search for Enyo, to say he looked, to say he tried, because he didn’t know what else to do – his backup plans were always fueled and invoked by perseverance (eventually something had to give, and it wasn’t going to be him).   The arena was lined with too much sand and hardly any fish. He stared at its churning waves, at its bellowing surface, and narrowed his eyes, almost thought to sneer, to raise his hackles, to offer a glinting challenge to the world (you’ve already taken enough from me, he thought, what more can you do?), to the realm, to the stretch of beach and barriers. The spires reminded him briefly of the rotting, rusting Sentinels, gleaming in promise of bloodshed and ruin, grown static and forlorn, into nothing but particles of metal, by the weights of time – who was to say these towers weren’t the same? Boldness cut through his core, a relishing proposition, better than the hours he’d spent in mourning, in brooding, in languishing every single piece of his soul because he’d had enough, enough of being a pawn in this parade, enough of standing by and letting unknown forces or fallen Gods or hellholes drag him any further down into their clutches. The youth’s gaze focused on the waves again, the suspended torment, the weightless world spiraling amidst the glamor, the decadence, and reckless endeavors pierced into his skull; he smirked, he sneered, he glimmered, alive and renewed by the challenge, by the crusade, by the notion that he couldn’t fall any further.   He stepped inside the gates.

Image Credits
@Galahad

It had taken a whole other row to get this permission. Even Galahad could see why, he hadn’t exactly been following the rules. There was the time he was out past dark. The time he went off without telling anyone. Even when Da followed him he’d ventured off. Ma called it ‘independent’. Da called it ‘idiotic’. Which he didn’t understand because those were two totally different things. Then Ma gave Da a look, one of those like he got when he was doing something silly. The colt thought it was cause Da was the same way. He’d seen him go off tons of times now, and rarely return before dark. He wondered, letting his imagination fly, what Da was doing when he’d go out. Maybe exploring? There certainly was a lot of that to do around here. More so, there was the beach…he’d only been once, with Haldir and Da, but that had been cut short. Now he wanted another turn. He wanted to run across the sand like he had, and kick up. So much lately had been spent in quite wonder at the world he found himself, now the colt just wanted to be a colt, even if he had to go off on his own to do it.


That’s how he found himself here, tearing down a beach at the fullest speed the sand would allow, kicking up his heels at some imaginary fiend. His mind reliving the stories Ma and Da told…wolves, demon gods, and races up mountains. He played through it all until he felt his cloven hooves slip, and his muscles strain at the extra effort. It felt good. So often now he was bent up in their small cut out in the roots of a tree, sheltered from the rain. It felt good to let it out, to feel his heart pound in his chest with some strength, instead of the fear which he usually took note of, and it especially felt good to forget about the flames which licked his back and mutated his coat. It felt right and good.


Tearing across the sands, that’s how he found him. The colt skidded, skipping to a slower beat. The stallion was standing, with a high head looking toward the sea. It was like when he and Casca practiced against one another. But there was no one else out here. In his springy trot, the colt came watched as the blue unicorn stepped into some…what was that? Harks fall back and he slows, to a walk, looking for the first time at his surroundings. A wind blows off the sea, picking up the sand, and blowing the flames on his back against him. Harks fall as he feels the heat, gut clenching to think of the possibility of them touching…burning…Maybe where the stallion had gone wouldn’t be so windy.


The colt slips in a few moments after the other, his small body looking even smaller still against the grand arena. Sea eyes look about him, before finding the stallion. He’s once again reminded of how much smaller he is than grown-ups. One again hated it. It made him feel little. True, he was little, but he was growing a pride as large as his parents. “Erm…Hello.” He stood square at the center of the spires, but his ivory crowned head held high. “What is this place?” The thoughts of his safety, boldness, or any other rational concerns were as usual, far from his curious and growingly prideful mind.

@Erebos

Erebos had barely pressed into the sands, had barely seethed, had barely simmered, had barely smothered his rage, his abhorrence, into the doom and gloom of fallen towers and watery castles, before another traipsed nearby. He thought about ignoring the gilded child altogether, contemplated continuing on his quest for dissolution and acrimony, on twisting and turning the revolution burning in his soul – but he choked it down instead, swallowed his loathing, his soullessness, so the boy wouldn’t see (so no one could stare and wonder and understand just how far he’d truly gone). His head swiveled, tilting slightly, and Orsino grumbled at his feet, a little less savage (which irked him too, because that’s all he’d ever known the kitsune to be; it was another puzzle to solve and ponder later). He could’ve been all power, all prowess, all precision, ruin, and annihilation, another obvious force intending to pour harm and calamity into the vile reaches of their newest hellhole, but the youth before him didn’t deserve that (and no fiend had done the same to him – until the Colossus). So he funneled and festered, withered and decayed, faded from that blistering, savage indulgence until his features warped back into an easygoing smile. The warrior displayed a touch of charm and charisma, a play of too many irreverent facets, a little Cheshire around the eyes, far too impish and mischievous, deplorable in the mind and body, his spirit broken, tangled, and snapped seasons ago, and continually cut, scraped, and lacerated; the endless sojourn of travesty and disaster. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly, because he didn’t. This world had no clues except Kisamoa and his chaotic bedlam, his uproars, his sedition – and he stared off into the mystical abyss again, wondering how this palisade had come to topple, if it was just one more empire that had dug their heels in, that had fought and fought, but bled and fell apart anyway, forced into defeat because there’d been no other option.   Then his piercing stare, too much like his father’s, fell to the child again, noted familiar features but couldn’t pinpoint where he’d seen them (ghosts, mirages, wraiths, trances, the eternal nightmares?). Instead of asking, instead of pondering over the babe’s lineage or if he’d come to be haunted too (shown the light of day only to be hastened into destruction), the tiniest of smiles coiled along his mouth, a steely, tenacious edge forming in his glance. “But I intend to find out.” It was amongst a legion of promises, of declarations, of oaths and pledges he’d yet to complete, but there was nothing here to stop him. He almost dared the world to order him to cease and desist, to never wander into their desecrated depths, to never explore beyond the spires and watchtowers; his blackguard essence had ceased to care. At this notion, he arched a brow, slid mischief into their sanction, dared, and instigated, an agent provocateur, inciting rebellion in the smallest of beings. “Would you like to join me?”

Image Credits
@Galahad