smoke in a halo { as vs. tbd } day 6
Mar 28, 2018 23:00:18 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Mar 28, 2018 23:00:18 GMT -5
c a d e.
There's a steadiness in broken souls; a stubbornness in boys from the forest.
Because you falter as the world tilts, level with the incomprehensible, and something in your chest falls dead, pulling like a weight. A red star shaking, you watch a river flow and twist and burn into something idyllic, frozen in a story of decay. You stagger under the sound of silence, drown in some sort of sentiment until it's broken by the sound of a heart.
"Raven -" You bend and break and crack, overflowing with a lamentation, But you reach for him, shaking under a weight, gentle in a way you've never been before, ( only been once ) "- he's gone now. We have to go." Like a sob climbing up through your throat, there are shards of something obsolete blocking your airway, constricting.
His grief is tangible in the air, voice catching like an old record and there's a wetness against your chest when you pull him closer; you stumble from it, drag him away, ship to shore - because you owe at least that much to Caine.
And you owe him so much more.
You can't breathe until you're away from the mountain, away from the thin air and dead bodies and children with wolves teeth. You've shed parts of you, layers of a numbing facade, something you had clung to like a child. Any semblance of home has gone, wilted away with a boy and fallen weightless with a girl. Three carries a careful toxicity to you, an old brand on your skin that served as a reminder; a series of crutches and safety nets, crushed violets and tables of stardust.
A support system gained and lost; you want to tell the night sky a million different things, scream the words of a sinner's sonnet while you tear Orion down from his home, futile and envious.
There are new constellations in the sky, ones that burn pinpricks into your skin but you rely on the pain to know they're there, nursing something that doesn't exist. You can barely make out their faces, light points blurred silver, forming fuzzy shapes back lit in blue.
There's a tripwire in your chest, a switch that sets off a supernova, and you're all shaking legs and ground tremors again - the first day of a dawning, four dead and one of them should have been you. Mock reflections; it was under these trees where Caine told you about his brother and you counted the stars in time with his cadence. This is where you held a fractured mind and faced a dead man, where you saw a foreign sunrise and struck down a star.
Something new and something not; a realization, hidden words written in the margins, echoing things you had overlooked for years. There was a language you never bothered to learn, warnings of a graffiti mural, blood around you, on your hands, behind your eyes.
Reverting back to the beginning, cycle repetitions, you find Polaris and breathe through a memory, a drink of fever colours and salt water. You think of what is, what could have been, someone elses words - life had other plans.
Five insignificant letters; r i e n e - you're just a boy of lilacs and spilled ink, circumstantial, because there's a strike through your name and you'd drop it in a heartbeat.
( "You're a part of the Winchester family now." )
You've never been a part of anything before.
He's gone and you ache for it, but his heart is still here, a moonbeam buried in Raven's chest.
And maybe there's still some piece of Caine Winchester that you can save.
Raven's face reflects firelight and you can see sorrow in the lines of his face, half-said words and things you don't even try to understand - something broken beyond repair. You've never believed in love, the blindness and the pain of it, but you've seen strength, heard power from this boy of Seven and you think, maybe, he could be the one to survive what you couldn't. His story was yours once, but you weren't strong enough. A splintered heart, bruised with watercolour paints, and you press a hand against your pulse, reassure yourself of a finality.
"It was real you know -" You count heartbeats. "he loved you."
You're cyclic; choking on the inevitable, inescapable, and it tastes like moonshine. A break in the pattern, you wore fingerprint bruises and slanted handwriting like armour, buried yourself in something you couldn't have. Because you were never powerful enough to keep anything, you were selfish and foolish and young, stuck in a loop and barely growing. There's a life unlived, something you never had, and it's full of sounds you never got to hear, words you never got to say. You were always giving parts of yourself away, trying to replace them with stolen things, something left behind in the past.
Maybe you could have done it once - lived a life that was worth something.
"You have to live for him."
Maybe you'll settle for making the rest of this one count.
When the stars fade away you feel like a calamity, a premonition, something raw and blistering and real in a way you've never been before. Porcelain skin; you've broken more times than you can count, shattered like glass and cut yourself while trying to glue everything back together. Temporary fixes and borrowed time, you can feel it now - the warmth of a sun over the horizon, the chill of the ice in the air. There's a weakness in you, everything and nothing at the same time, but it's yours.
You've exhausted a lifetime of emotions, drained a red sea and scraped your fingers bloody at the bottom, sobriety splintering a mind and breaking a dam.
There's nothing left for you here.
Colours shift and you blink away the distortions, twin stars forming in your vision like some kind of omen. You don't know their faces, but you don't know your own face anymore, and when the hammer falls, you're the one to step forward, in front of Raven.
You began with a single purpose, a half-hearted mission of redemption and survival and some sick sort of vengeance. This isn't a back alley prayer anymore, a torn photograph crushed in your fist; this is a cycle breaking. You wanted him to watch and see what you'd become, what his mistakes created, a bruised boy of broken bottles and cheated words. But now you are different, an understanding in your bones, and that makes it so much better.
You hope District Three harbours a newly broken man.
Because you have lost and gained, shrunk and grown in the span of six days, and now you have some sort of better purpose.
Now you're just tired.
But,
this isn't finished.
You're not finished.
Not yet.
You are the aftermath; something silent, the damage after a hurricane and the rush after a fall. There is a cavity in your chest, hollow and echoing, but the air lulls you.
You are broken, but you have grown.
-
cade attacks finley combes ; knife
[x]
GM Note: Calla accidentally posted this in another location first, panicked and then deleted the original thread. I Elegant, told Calla to repost the thread in the correct place and said that we would go with her original roll of 2002.
TD;LR, the roll is a 2002
