Colt Winchester {District Ten}
Sept 18, 2019 16:27:13 GMT -5
Post by Arrows on Sept 18, 2019 16:27:13 GMT -5
Colt Winchester
17 years old
Male
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17 years old
Male
<><><><>
You followed the sun like a nymph to its euphoric allure. Where rays of golden radiance split showers of summer across your skin, you shone like a beacon beneath its beauty. Amidst shadow you would bring light bound to the essence of your skin, shared with you through your covenant with Apollo. Son of the Sun, how you danced across the dust-caked crust of the Earth in juvenile naivety. Songs of sorrow could not break your barrier of bountiful brightness, and in the sheen of the lance of your positivity, you purged panic with eloquent grace. Oh how the world watched you renounce withering to the wickedness of its design. Oh how with soft sternness you could guide the once-galvanized back to calmness. Oh what a spirit you were which had to be tarnished.
You were to him like the shadow of his shadow. In second steps your boots would fill the ones his left in the dirt. His voice was your strength and his kindness your goal. In nights framed by the falling of a slowly sinking sun, you shared secrets with him no other ears had the privilege to know. Even when you, the one of certainty in surging storms of discord, was not on leveled ground, he would reaffirm your footing. Some turn to Gods and some turn to themselves, but you would always turn to Caine. How blessed by Athena his words wrought from wisdom were. If only the turning tides of tragedy were not so ever-present, perhaps your world would not have changed. Perhaps he would be out in Demeter's fields now instead buried beneath them sharing tea with the one who stole her daughter.
For months, there was nothing but the beating of absent hooves and the sound of creaking wood. Where were you then with your light made to make better the broken? Where were your words of optimism needed by those of your blood? You spent your days, your nights, six months of your life in a stable among hay and muddied memories of before. Your fingers spent centuries following the fractures of wood scraped away by the edge of his knife. You kept up your work, but the birth of new foals and calves held not even a fragment of the fount of euphoria it once had. For once, the light of your soft shining candle flickered into smoke. How lost in the dark you were.
Yet time turns even the greatest of wounds into smaller scars, and so forth from the shadows you came with the gun of your ancestors now no longer Caine's. Your bubble of brightness rebounded and the casual carefree spirit granted to you from the God of the Sun returned with the renewal of summer. But you are not the same as when you had shared the space of existence with your brother. A newer more serious setting has been added to your toolbox, a necessary adjustment for filling the same boot prints you once followed. The family is in need of new leaders, and you must share in such acceptance. Jed needs now your light more than ever, and already you have deprived him and the others of it for long enough.
You've changed in another way as well, a factor tied to the sun-kissed skin of your ranch toned body. Your billowing locks of brown often find themselves as the oceans for various fingers of various faces. Instead of a stable you often spend nights away from home, it's a solid scenario for keeping the darkness at bay. Alas, despite even these endeavors, you never miss the sunrise shift. Before you were just the boy with medicinal knowledge from Ma, but now you dive deeper into the work of the ranch as a whole. Some days it's birthing, other days it's rotating the herds. "A house divided cannot stand," you hold tightly onto this phrase which you found during your days in the exile of death. A phrase which now paints itself in cursive arches across your chest and above your heart.
Some things never change though, and your voice carried by the stringing of Apollo's lyre runs you into troubled waters as often as it used to. Boisterous aggression at the auctions with Pa, unrelenting honesty to those unprepared for its sting, and even your sparks of rebellious rancor towards Peacekeepers on nights where you frequent the fruit of the vine. Oh how you know the smell of the single night cells beneath the Justice Building too well. Oh how you know the face flushed with your Father's fury when he arrives with your bail and the words of apology that do not know your tongue. Of all the things one would expect to expire with the ripening of maturity, of course it is this which remains. Maybe it's because Caine used to be the one to walk though those doors whenever you needed him.
You visit his grave site often, keep it clean and anointed with fresh flowers. It brings you comfort to think that maybe he would like the wreath of daisy you lay on the ground as his crown. Tears no longer trickle down your cheeks, but there the sadness still stirs beneath your smile. Blinding others in light can be a pretty effective shield, who knows how long you'll need it.
You were to him like the shadow of his shadow. In second steps your boots would fill the ones his left in the dirt. His voice was your strength and his kindness your goal. In nights framed by the falling of a slowly sinking sun, you shared secrets with him no other ears had the privilege to know. Even when you, the one of certainty in surging storms of discord, was not on leveled ground, he would reaffirm your footing. Some turn to Gods and some turn to themselves, but you would always turn to Caine. How blessed by Athena his words wrought from wisdom were. If only the turning tides of tragedy were not so ever-present, perhaps your world would not have changed. Perhaps he would be out in Demeter's fields now instead buried beneath them sharing tea with the one who stole her daughter.
For months, there was nothing but the beating of absent hooves and the sound of creaking wood. Where were you then with your light made to make better the broken? Where were your words of optimism needed by those of your blood? You spent your days, your nights, six months of your life in a stable among hay and muddied memories of before. Your fingers spent centuries following the fractures of wood scraped away by the edge of his knife. You kept up your work, but the birth of new foals and calves held not even a fragment of the fount of euphoria it once had. For once, the light of your soft shining candle flickered into smoke. How lost in the dark you were.
Yet time turns even the greatest of wounds into smaller scars, and so forth from the shadows you came with the gun of your ancestors now no longer Caine's. Your bubble of brightness rebounded and the casual carefree spirit granted to you from the God of the Sun returned with the renewal of summer. But you are not the same as when you had shared the space of existence with your brother. A newer more serious setting has been added to your toolbox, a necessary adjustment for filling the same boot prints you once followed. The family is in need of new leaders, and you must share in such acceptance. Jed needs now your light more than ever, and already you have deprived him and the others of it for long enough.
You've changed in another way as well, a factor tied to the sun-kissed skin of your ranch toned body. Your billowing locks of brown often find themselves as the oceans for various fingers of various faces. Instead of a stable you often spend nights away from home, it's a solid scenario for keeping the darkness at bay. Alas, despite even these endeavors, you never miss the sunrise shift. Before you were just the boy with medicinal knowledge from Ma, but now you dive deeper into the work of the ranch as a whole. Some days it's birthing, other days it's rotating the herds. "A house divided cannot stand," you hold tightly onto this phrase which you found during your days in the exile of death. A phrase which now paints itself in cursive arches across your chest and above your heart.
Some things never change though, and your voice carried by the stringing of Apollo's lyre runs you into troubled waters as often as it used to. Boisterous aggression at the auctions with Pa, unrelenting honesty to those unprepared for its sting, and even your sparks of rebellious rancor towards Peacekeepers on nights where you frequent the fruit of the vine. Oh how you know the smell of the single night cells beneath the Justice Building too well. Oh how you know the face flushed with your Father's fury when he arrives with your bail and the words of apology that do not know your tongue. Of all the things one would expect to expire with the ripening of maturity, of course it is this which remains. Maybe it's because Caine used to be the one to walk though those doors whenever you needed him.
You visit his grave site often, keep it clean and anointed with fresh flowers. It brings you comfort to think that maybe he would like the wreath of daisy you lay on the ground as his crown. Tears no longer trickle down your cheeks, but there the sadness still stirs beneath your smile. Blinding others in light can be a pretty effective shield, who knows how long you'll need it.
