Guilty, Edmund & ? - Prompt 7 : Battle @100foraslan
Title: Guilty
Autor : babydracky
Fandom/Pairing: NARNIA; Edmund Pevensie & ??
Rating : PG-13
Notes: Written for the prompt "Battle" @ 100foraslan
200 words.
Sorry, but English is not my native language, I do hope I didn’t make too many mistakes. I always try to do my best but I know my best isn’t enough yet!:p I'm not pretty sure that one will be understandable, people oo
GUILTY
Clouds. Suffocating, oppressive.
Voices. Screams. Cries.
Mud. Silting, tired bodies.
Loud lament of crossing swords. Cold whispers of flying arrows.
Blood. Red and warm on his face, disgusting ferrous taste on his tongue. Black, air-dried, revolving stains on the high vivid wild grass.
A waking nightmare.
Alone, so alone.
And just those dark and lovingly eyes, coloured-life eyes, confiant, believing in him.
Just those strong and sunkissed arms to hold him tight through neverending troubling nights on battlefields.
Just that warm body against his, filling him each night with life, with care, with tenderness.
Just Caspian to chase away the horrors of the war.
A suffocate scream.
A nightmare. A remembrance of Narnia.
Alone, so alone.
Back in London. Sound and safe. His body is.
His broken soul silently crying for his lost bestfriend, his heart aching for his King’s forgiveness.
Because no battle could have been more murderous than Peter’s hurt and stony gaze when he came back, a man, a broken one, spilling his mistakes, his treachery, his heart out.
Just Peter’s eyes.
Alone, so alone.
Begging his King to take him back, to hold him tight.
Praying for his brother to cherish him, to love him again.
Autor : babydracky
Fandom/Pairing: NARNIA; Edmund Pevensie & ??
Rating : PG-13
Notes: Written for the prompt "Battle" @ 100foraslan
200 words.
Sorry, but English is not my native language, I do hope I didn’t make too many mistakes. I always try to do my best but I know my best isn’t enough yet!:p I'm not pretty sure that one will be understandable, people oo
GUILTY
Clouds. Suffocating, oppressive.
Voices. Screams. Cries.
Mud. Silting, tired bodies.
Loud lament of crossing swords. Cold whispers of flying arrows.
Blood. Red and warm on his face, disgusting ferrous taste on his tongue. Black, air-dried, revolving stains on the high vivid wild grass.
A waking nightmare.
Alone, so alone.
And just those dark and lovingly eyes, coloured-life eyes, confiant, believing in him.
Just those strong and sunkissed arms to hold him tight through neverending troubling nights on battlefields.
Just that warm body against his, filling him each night with life, with care, with tenderness.
Just Caspian to chase away the horrors of the war.
A suffocate scream.
A nightmare. A remembrance of Narnia.
Alone, so alone.
Back in London. Sound and safe. His body is.
His broken soul silently crying for his lost bestfriend, his heart aching for his King’s forgiveness.
Because no battle could have been more murderous than Peter’s hurt and stony gaze when he came back, a man, a broken one, spilling his mistakes, his treachery, his heart out.
Just Peter’s eyes.
Alone, so alone.
Begging his King to take him back, to hold him tight.
Praying for his brother to cherish him, to love him again.