Everything unraveled, thread by thread, fiber by fiber, until he felt his heart plunge, sink, unraveling down into the nestling of thorns and brambles. His father was quiet, his mother was silent, his uncle continued to battle the lightning strands, and he was lost again, shaking, trembling, despite all the anger, all the hostility that had been within him only moments before. Perhaps he wasn’t made for acrimony and violence, didn’t feel the zeal, the finesse, the fervor of a blade or spear – too young, too immersed in more gentle, ignorant things, only emboldened, unfurled, in the rite, in the rapture, of strife and bedlam. Pushed and shoved, the calm, quiet waves of his childishness had fractured apart, and now they clung back together, needing, yearning, wanting, the protective nature of his family again, because he had naught else (no powers, no companions, no corruption simmering away at his bones). His eyes swarmed and followed the glow of ghosts and the agony of all the bewitching airs, striving not to quiver in the faces of demons and loved ones, a whisper creeping from his mouth towards his father.
“Dad, we have to go.” It was a plea, an appeal, an entreaty, to return to somewhere else – because any other threshold had to be better, had to be safer, than the one they standing upon now, being struck down by pillars of the past.
“Iskra,” he turned again to the blue and gold boy, who had to regard his dam as
dangerous when she shouldn’t have been, and the little mountain wanted to cry again for all the ridiculous notions, sentiments, and trials they’d been granted since existing
here, in this awful, awful place. The ruby red gaze watched in horror as so many twists and turns aligned themselves amidst the refined terror; a knife poised towards his family’s back, electric eagles screeching, careening, for the void.
“Watch out!” The boy shouted, over and over again, for it was all he could do, all he could provide, taking turns tugging at his uncle’s wings and beseeching his father’s frame with vigorous snaps of his teeth. When his stare fixated on the embankment, so close and yet so far, he made the decision for them, utterly insistent, infernal in those clawing moments when something had to give way (and innocence already had).
“Follow me!” Then tiny Mauna strived to reach for sanctity, for those precious, few instances where they’d be secure, escaping the unrelenting soullessness of the day.
{Attempts to coax @
Zèklè and @
Iskra to ESCAPE with him.}
Scint River
