sigils of helios — deadlock gang. [day 1]
Feb 23, 2019 16:44:20 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 23, 2019 16:44:20 GMT -5
( This dream isn't feeling sweet
We're reeling through the midnight streets )
We're reeling through the midnight streets )
Francisco Bloom is everything.
He is the glorious summertide, filling the space between his clothes and the bare skin below with warmth. He is the azure blue sky that spreads above his head like an upside down sea, aviators adrift across its smooth and ivoried tides. He is the wind trails and their caressing softness on his cheeks, each caress a reminder of simpler and freer times. He is the hollow ache in his own bones, the lighting rush in his own lifeblood. He is the heavy gaze which drinks in the kiss between Exover and Saturn and spits the contents out with an irate flutter of eyelashes because it’s too bitter – too acidic. He is the red from Nico’s severed arm and severed leg. He is Myrcella’s skull – breaking over and over in the back of his eyelids – that cracks like ripen pomegranate from the market, like watermelons served amid april heat.
He does not want to be everything.
But, Francis has seen, felt, tasted, smelled and heard everything so it cannot help but become a part of him now, each sliver of a sensation intrinsic to his entirety. It’s a dreadful feeling.
It’s even more dreadful to carry this feeling but he tries, he tries as he clambers over worn hills and dense thickets, gasping and trembling. Clutched between his arms is Nico, adorned in red and gore, breaths shallow. “It’s going to be ok.” He uses his best efforts to equip a clarion voice – like Myrcella’s – but it comes out shakily.
Francisco Bloom with his wooden bones and branchy ribs, all prone to breakage.
He already has fracture lines webbed across his form — some thin and shallow, whilst some runs deep and hollow. They are a part of Francisco that he hides, beautifully, with flowers but never heals or closes over themselves. They are his mother's death, his father's negligence, and his name, thundering across the reaping post. They are Nico’s agonized features and Myrcella’s demise. They are Exover’s lips, not over his own. They are the worn and fresh memories of each welt of destruction and peril the world has flicked upon his skin.
He feels the cracks grow as he settles Nico down upon the soil and under Jessica’s dark shadow. Her reticence has made Francis forget her for a moment, but those chiseled features of her scream insults at him for even daring to forget. Jessica stands glorious, a hidden expression across her face, with no urgent wounds or deep scratches.
“Look after him, okay?” He pats Nico’s shoulder and trusts the beast to withhold her appetite.
“I’ll look around and see if I can find some water to clean the wounds before it gets infected.” Those few hours in the medic station have risen to the occasion brilliantly.
Shaken, his footsteps venture and venture.
The world is haunting blues and barbaric reds and dim brown, bleeding into each other’s territories of pigment. Then it becomes all mirthful yellow.