it's only blood [di vs mutts]
Oct 28, 2017 21:14:38 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on Oct 28, 2017 21:14:38 GMT -5
► ► ►
I do not scream when the point of my weapon pierces Quillon Blackfare's neck before he gains so much as a footing in this broken battlefield of hours, the bitter taste of blood on my hands isn't new to me after all. An iceberg, these red hands of mine become a catalyst for sinking hearts and drowning stories. I catch his gaze for a second, an embodiment of blood lust, to fear to nothing all within the space of a single spear thrust and a pause. I blink, attaching dark hair, to red blood to dead eyes and I know that I did that. With my steady hands and sturdy resolve.
He falls but he doesn't hit the ground, instead he is swept into the arms of Tobias and left to stare down his grief in his final moments. I step back, the cracks within my resolve showing as my hands tremble, the killing weapon heavy with his blood and dry with Serena and Alice's. "I... I'm..."
Yet I do not let empty words of moot meaning leave my tongue -- what do I have to be sorry for?
I miss who I was.
The moonlight caresses the two of them, broken boy and dying man and Tobias holds his grief against his chest and screams. And I stay back, as if a sinking heart could be passed on by a simple touch. I am already condemned to break, to carry on this deadly plague of vengeance and bloodshed until one of both push the rest of my body in the grave. I'm ensnared, watching despair flourish while love wilts.
"An...Ansel?"
I brush my non-bloodied thumb against the corner of his paper ear; age sixteen with the sound of a trap door refusing to fade into background noise, my mother's hands resting on my shoulders and hair tickling my chin.
I don't care how much he screams in the face of loss; he doesn't know grief to the extent I do.
I contemplate ending his suffering right then and there, his friend felt the bite of my spear and it seems only poetic if the the basic case were to come into play for him.
A soft gale in this tundra of grief, the song of an angel in this hell -- a ball and chain that anchors me to home. A riddle only questioned when I allowed the tension in that rope to become a catalyst for grief and this picture in my pocket to become a method of reminiscence for love. I don't think I can do it, snatch a man's life while grief sits raw in his chest.
My voice shakes and my hands tremble. "I hope I never see you again."
I leave with the sound of cannon fire at my back.
The sky reminds me who I killed.
Four is dead and I can't help but smile. We never so much as spoke but I saw her. Her pious glare, while not directed at my specifically, sent chills down my spine and I now I relish the thought of pressure being applied to the privileged.
Eighteen years I spent building these white wings; forming a halo over my head and sewing innocence to my chest. Now, I'm a lamb in lion's clothing; blinded by the ashes of my paper kingdom, stumbling through the darkness that guided his blade. I lag behind, following the rogue silhouettes of Daniela, Sirrah and Alfie. I do not think to ask if they're hurt, I cannot distinguish between the injured and the broken for they're all the same shade of red anyway. I'm blinded my ash and anchored by blood, a red ball and chain clings to my feet and leaves a crimson outline in the ground. It peels from my hands and soaks into my clothes -- it becomes me.
I tore off those white wings the moment scattered my humanity into the sky.
I don't cry.
I wonder what my father would say if he could see me now, if he could see inside my head from his broken neck and cold corpse. I wonder if he'd tell me to kill the three walking in front of me, draw a red line across the ground with blood from their backs.
I couldn't.
We stop and I smile with relief, weak and forced. I settle into the dust, beneath the moonlight and I sit and watch, taking sips and water and watching the blood dry into my hand. I don't know whose it is anymore; too many to count, too many to tell -- ("does the rotten apple fall far from the rotten tree?") I'm tired of falling, climbing tall summits just so I can come crashing down when judgement falls like a gavel against. A falling boy, a sinking heart, a shattering sanity -- why am I so numb?
"Have you done it before?" Curiosity breaks my train of thought, I turn my heart to Daniela, too confused to think and too tired to care.
"What?" I ask simply, bringing my knees to my chest mindlessly.
"Stolen a life?" She clarifies and I shudder. She makes it sound so cutthroat and simple, like I've simply picked their pocket from the shadows as opposed putting my weapon through their flesh and watching their hearts sink.
"No I never," I allow myself to trail off, speaking without thinking. "My dad did, though." It's as if I'm simply stating a fact as opposed to taking on the tone of confession. Everyone in District Six knows and poses the same riddle, what's the rest of the country at this point?
"My dad still does." She replies, I turn to her eyes wide. I almost shout at her to be careful what she admits on national television but I decide I don't care.
I look back to the ground and shrug my shoulders. "Mine still would if he was still alive I guess." They said he was still active, luring people into forests with an axe in hand long even long into his fifties. Butcher, psychopath, murderer -- same man until the end. They found it difficult to remember a woman called him husband and a boy called him father, instead they projected his manic tendencies onto me, passing judgement as if the executioners themselves and spotting the similarities in the way we walked, the way we talked and the way we lived. If I opened his casket, I wonder if I'd find a skeleton two years into decay or a pile of nuts and bolts -- how can such a man carry the weight of these lives and still anchor himself to his humanity?
I never asked, I can't ask.
So I let the corner of his picture brush over my thumb and remember what it meant to be loved by a killer.
"did you think I had?" I ask her, wondering if she follows the same train of thought as the rest of District Six. Finding ways to compare every fiber within my being to the likeness of a murderer. She nods in response. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.
"Who stole his life?" There it is again, with that word stole. As if they picked his pocket as opposed to hanging him.
"The Peacekeepers." I answer, nothing more nothing less. I'm not foolish enough to say it was some sort of deity bringing him to passing judgement on him or an embodiment of justice ending his silent reign of terror. Men in white broke his neck and a fallen angel watched.
"I hope they take my dad, now that I am here." I raise my eyebrows in confusion at that, wondering how she can wish to condemn the man who raised her to the same fate as mine. Who can hate her family.
It makes me angry.
"Trust me you really don't. You don't recover from that, you can't recover from that." My voice bites with cold edge, dressed by a simple fact because I'm still falling through the darkness that trap door opened. And while I spent eighteen years building white wings and holding a halo over my head, it only took the tension in that rope for me to realize eighteen years worth of work was useless my roots were called into question. Stupid child, she doesn't want that. "I still don't think I have."
"You don't know me or my dad." I roll my eyes at this, I hate spoiled brats.
"I never said I did, just be careful what you wish for." I tell her.
She rolls her eyes and begins to walk off. "Whatever."
I scowl. "This is why I hate spoiled brats." I mutter, turning around and laying on my side.
I whither beneath the moonlight.
I'm awoken by blue flood.
I lag behind once again when we walk, these unsteady feet of mine taking me through the darkness and away from water. It's an unspoken agreement to leave, the red imprint of Quillon's corpse seared into the back of my mind like the molten iron. I hear him, Tobias, in the back of my mind -- ("An...Ansel?") And I remember.
I have enough blood on my hands to paint rivers red.
"Hello old friends," I whisper into the night at the sight of the tombstones, warriors of the past, legends of the future. Me. Riordan Einfallen, Wyatt O'Connor -- where the fuck is Teddy Ursa. Living, breathing, probably drinking.
Maybe hating me.
I spot them before I hear them, shadows in the corner of my eye. Footsteps, growling.
Death. Pain. Suffer.
"Guys," I say, barely louder than a whisper but they keep walking, they don't hear me. My heart races, I reach into my bag when the shadows get closer. "Guys!"
The first thing I feel, something wooden, something sharp.
I pull the bloodied axe and twirl on my heels and terror incarnate. Small in frame, terrifying in stature -- not quite dead yet not quite living. An incarnation of the Capitol's creativity, a figment of my fear. It steps forwards and I step back.
I step forwards, a soldier in this burning kingdom of mine.
I swing, it's all I know to do after all.
He falls but he doesn't hit the ground, instead he is swept into the arms of Tobias and left to stare down his grief in his final moments. I step back, the cracks within my resolve showing as my hands tremble, the killing weapon heavy with his blood and dry with Serena and Alice's. "I... I'm..."
Yet I do not let empty words of moot meaning leave my tongue -- what do I have to be sorry for?
I miss who I was.
The moonlight caresses the two of them, broken boy and dying man and Tobias holds his grief against his chest and screams. And I stay back, as if a sinking heart could be passed on by a simple touch. I am already condemned to break, to carry on this deadly plague of vengeance and bloodshed until one of both push the rest of my body in the grave. I'm ensnared, watching despair flourish while love wilts.
"An...Ansel?"
I brush my non-bloodied thumb against the corner of his paper ear; age sixteen with the sound of a trap door refusing to fade into background noise, my mother's hands resting on my shoulders and hair tickling my chin.
("An...Ansel"
"What do you want?"
"Are you okay"
"What do you think?")
"What do you want?"
"Are you okay"
"What do you think?")
I don't care how much he screams in the face of loss; he doesn't know grief to the extent I do.
I contemplate ending his suffering right then and there, his friend felt the bite of my spear and it seems only poetic if the the basic case were to come into play for him.
(Does the rotten apple fall far from the rotten tree?)
A soft gale in this tundra of grief, the song of an angel in this hell -- a ball and chain that anchors me to home. A riddle only questioned when I allowed the tension in that rope to become a catalyst for grief and this picture in my pocket to become a method of reminiscence for love. I don't think I can do it, snatch a man's life while grief sits raw in his chest.
My voice shakes and my hands tremble. "I hope I never see you again."
I leave with the sound of cannon fire at my back.
The sky reminds me who I killed.
Four is dead and I can't help but smile. We never so much as spoke but I saw her. Her pious glare, while not directed at my specifically, sent chills down my spine and I now I relish the thought of pressure being applied to the privileged.
Eighteen years I spent building these white wings; forming a halo over my head and sewing innocence to my chest. Now, I'm a lamb in lion's clothing; blinded by the ashes of my paper kingdom, stumbling through the darkness that guided his blade. I lag behind, following the rogue silhouettes of Daniela, Sirrah and Alfie. I do not think to ask if they're hurt, I cannot distinguish between the injured and the broken for they're all the same shade of red anyway. I'm blinded my ash and anchored by blood, a red ball and chain clings to my feet and leaves a crimson outline in the ground. It peels from my hands and soaks into my clothes -- it becomes me.
I tore off those white wings the moment scattered my humanity into the sky.
I don't cry.
I wonder what my father would say if he could see me now, if he could see inside my head from his broken neck and cold corpse. I wonder if he'd tell me to kill the three walking in front of me, draw a red line across the ground with blood from their backs.
I couldn't.
We stop and I smile with relief, weak and forced. I settle into the dust, beneath the moonlight and I sit and watch, taking sips and water and watching the blood dry into my hand. I don't know whose it is anymore; too many to count, too many to tell -- ("does the rotten apple fall far from the rotten tree?") I'm tired of falling, climbing tall summits just so I can come crashing down when judgement falls like a gavel against. A falling boy, a sinking heart, a shattering sanity -- why am I so numb?
"Have you done it before?" Curiosity breaks my train of thought, I turn my heart to Daniela, too confused to think and too tired to care.
"What?" I ask simply, bringing my knees to my chest mindlessly.
"Stolen a life?" She clarifies and I shudder. She makes it sound so cutthroat and simple, like I've simply picked their pocket from the shadows as opposed putting my weapon through their flesh and watching their hearts sink.
"No I never," I allow myself to trail off, speaking without thinking. "My dad did, though." It's as if I'm simply stating a fact as opposed to taking on the tone of confession. Everyone in District Six knows and poses the same riddle, what's the rest of the country at this point?
"My dad still does." She replies, I turn to her eyes wide. I almost shout at her to be careful what she admits on national television but I decide I don't care.
(What matters anymore, anyway?)
I look back to the ground and shrug my shoulders. "Mine still would if he was still alive I guess." They said he was still active, luring people into forests with an axe in hand long even long into his fifties. Butcher, psychopath, murderer -- same man until the end. They found it difficult to remember a woman called him husband and a boy called him father, instead they projected his manic tendencies onto me, passing judgement as if the executioners themselves and spotting the similarities in the way we walked, the way we talked and the way we lived. If I opened his casket, I wonder if I'd find a skeleton two years into decay or a pile of nuts and bolts -- how can such a man carry the weight of these lives and still anchor himself to his humanity?
I never asked, I can't ask.
So I let the corner of his picture brush over my thumb and remember what it meant to be loved by a killer.
"did you think I had?" I ask her, wondering if she follows the same train of thought as the rest of District Six. Finding ways to compare every fiber within my being to the likeness of a murderer. She nods in response. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.
"Who stole his life?" There it is again, with that word stole. As if they picked his pocket as opposed to hanging him.
"The Peacekeepers." I answer, nothing more nothing less. I'm not foolish enough to say it was some sort of deity bringing him to passing judgement on him or an embodiment of justice ending his silent reign of terror. Men in white broke his neck and a fallen angel watched.
"I hope they take my dad, now that I am here." I raise my eyebrows in confusion at that, wondering how she can wish to condemn the man who raised her to the same fate as mine. Who can hate her family.
It makes me angry.
"Trust me you really don't. You don't recover from that, you can't recover from that." My voice bites with cold edge, dressed by a simple fact because I'm still falling through the darkness that trap door opened. And while I spent eighteen years building white wings and holding a halo over my head, it only took the tension in that rope for me to realize eighteen years worth of work was useless my roots were called into question. Stupid child, she doesn't want that. "I still don't think I have."
"You don't know me or my dad." I roll my eyes at this, I hate spoiled brats.
"I never said I did, just be careful what you wish for." I tell her.
She rolls her eyes and begins to walk off. "Whatever."
I scowl. "This is why I hate spoiled brats." I mutter, turning around and laying on my side.
I whither beneath the moonlight.
I'm awoken by blue flood.
I lag behind once again when we walk, these unsteady feet of mine taking me through the darkness and away from water. It's an unspoken agreement to leave, the red imprint of Quillon's corpse seared into the back of my mind like the molten iron. I hear him, Tobias, in the back of my mind -- ("An...Ansel?") And I remember.
I have enough blood on my hands to paint rivers red.
"Hello old friends," I whisper into the night at the sight of the tombstones, warriors of the past, legends of the future. Me. Riordan Einfallen, Wyatt O'Connor -- where the fuck is Teddy Ursa. Living, breathing, probably drinking.
Maybe hating me.
I spot them before I hear them, shadows in the corner of my eye. Footsteps, growling.
Death. Pain. Suffer.
"Guys," I say, barely louder than a whisper but they keep walking, they don't hear me. My heart races, I reach into my bag when the shadows get closer. "Guys!"
The first thing I feel, something wooden, something sharp.
I pull the bloodied axe and twirl on my heels and terror incarnate. Small in frame, terrifying in stature -- not quite dead yet not quite living. An incarnation of the Capitol's creativity, a figment of my fear. It steps forwards and I step back.
(what am I afraid of anymore?)
I step forwards, a soldier in this burning kingdom of mine.
I swing, it's all I know to do after all.
[ansel khiev attacks terrortot #1; axe]
bna0JsJJaxe
[11047 -- Deep Gash on Stomach -- 9.0 damage]
![heather - d2 [mylee] Avatar](https://i.imgur.com/EYsuKfD.png)
