(no subject)
His heart shattered, leaking out his soul. It flowed away as he watched her dying on the floor.
He sank to his knees. The dust floated up.
And tears as salty as the ocean washed his face.
This was his doing.
His own sword had pierced her, too easily, it slipped in smooth. Slick with her blood, as rich as wine and deeper than the colour of her dark eyes.
Time eternal in his mind’s eye, he’d pulled it out; until the world sped up and he threw it away.
Unseen it flew, it glinted and shone with darkened hue of burgundy.
Landing, clanging, it sounded his defeat.
The blade was engulfed by the ashes of the Moon in a dry, swirling mist. There it remained, forgotten in the distance.
His hands grasped at his once sunshine hair, too afraid to reach and touch her. They traced finger marks along the sides of his face.
Dirt and sweat and blood and skin built beneath his nails.
He wanted to scream out his despair, but the tightness of his chest gripped, too raw. It overpowered him.
Her beautiful fine head tilted back as her eyelids approached each other. Fluttering like butterflies, her dark lashes traced their way across like the tips of their wings. Her coal black hair blended with the ground that had once been its cold, pale opposite and her sultry voice was constricted, trapped in her delicate throat.
She was giving up.
Anger erupted within him.
This was why he hated her.
Where had her pride gone? Where was the fire that had ensnared him so completely?
It was this weakness which had let Endymion die.
Earth had given their last hope, their Golden King, in faith and love and trust and begged the Soldiers of the Moon to protect him.
With open embraces that hid false smiles, they accepted and vowed.
Long ago they watched him fall. Now they faced the same.
But his rage soon cracked into the icy depths of loss as he watched her, weak and dying. The fear of life without at least her surrounded him like a shadow.
He was not whole, and when she left, he would be empty.
He lifted her into his arms and clutched her slender form, soaked with her life. He was unwilling to let her sleep so he flooded her with his touch and whispered words to her which were but a distant memory to them. “Let me come with you Kamala…” he begged, finally, as her life spent and her eyes shut, “At least take your vengeance for the Princess, as I took mine for him.”
Her blood suddenly ignited into a blaze, burning all that it coated with consuming heat.
Soaked in her essence he smiled, a ghost of his once happy past.
The fire licked him with hungry desire.
He ignored the blinding pain and held her tighter, throwing himself into her flames.
He sank to his knees. The dust floated up.
And tears as salty as the ocean washed his face.
This was his doing.
His own sword had pierced her, too easily, it slipped in smooth. Slick with her blood, as rich as wine and deeper than the colour of her dark eyes.
Time eternal in his mind’s eye, he’d pulled it out; until the world sped up and he threw it away.
Unseen it flew, it glinted and shone with darkened hue of burgundy.
Landing, clanging, it sounded his defeat.
The blade was engulfed by the ashes of the Moon in a dry, swirling mist. There it remained, forgotten in the distance.
His hands grasped at his once sunshine hair, too afraid to reach and touch her. They traced finger marks along the sides of his face.
Dirt and sweat and blood and skin built beneath his nails.
He wanted to scream out his despair, but the tightness of his chest gripped, too raw. It overpowered him.
Her beautiful fine head tilted back as her eyelids approached each other. Fluttering like butterflies, her dark lashes traced their way across like the tips of their wings. Her coal black hair blended with the ground that had once been its cold, pale opposite and her sultry voice was constricted, trapped in her delicate throat.
She was giving up.
Anger erupted within him.
This was why he hated her.
Where had her pride gone? Where was the fire that had ensnared him so completely?
It was this weakness which had let Endymion die.
Earth had given their last hope, their Golden King, in faith and love and trust and begged the Soldiers of the Moon to protect him.
With open embraces that hid false smiles, they accepted and vowed.
Long ago they watched him fall. Now they faced the same.
But his rage soon cracked into the icy depths of loss as he watched her, weak and dying. The fear of life without at least her surrounded him like a shadow.
He was not whole, and when she left, he would be empty.
He lifted her into his arms and clutched her slender form, soaked with her life. He was unwilling to let her sleep so he flooded her with his touch and whispered words to her which were but a distant memory to them. “Let me come with you Kamala…” he begged, finally, as her life spent and her eyes shut, “At least take your vengeance for the Princess, as I took mine for him.”
Her blood suddenly ignited into a blaze, burning all that it coated with consuming heat.
Soaked in her essence he smiled, a ghost of his once happy past.
The fire licked him with hungry desire.
He ignored the blinding pain and held her tighter, throwing himself into her flames.