[ftm] 5.7 - prince charming lyrics
Look up to me
What to be and what to fear
Look up to me
Look it's me, at what you hear
See right through me
See the one who can't be free
See right through me
Look it's me what no one wants to see
Mays Ryder, Sr. was a man that could paint a picture.
Little Mays could see it as his father told the story yet again about the Bastard Immortal that had nearly killed him. He showed his sons the scar on his neck from the blade that nearly took his head, told the tale about the vicious, soulless man that would have spit on him before showing any mercy.
Little six year old Mays could see the blood on the imaginary blade of his father’s sword as he mimed slicing off the man-dragon’s head, could feel the hot arterial spray on his face even though he was too young to know what arterial spray was. It was vivid in his mind, a picture painted with words like ‘scarlet stream’ and a long ode to the short and desperate breaths the severed head took as it lay on the ground.
He could hear the thunder and lightning of the Quickening in Pop’s voice. It shook his small frame and made pale features ghost white as the child retched on the carpet once again, spoiling family story time.
“He’s too young to be hearing this, Mays…too sick! Little May, come to me.”
His mother’s arms were warm, but he still felt cold as he crawled into her embrace and laid his head on her shoulder. Pop’s smile was warm and comforting…and yet it still made Little Mays very cold inside.
“Nah, it’s just another flu bug…there wasn’t any cheese in that casserole you made tonight, was there, Jen?”
“No, Mays, there wasn’t. I know my boy’s lactose intolerant…poor Baby May, what is it that makes you so sick all the time?”
He wanted to tell her she was right about the stories. He wanted to forget the words that rang with thunder and bloodshed and evil. Evil words…yet his father was a good man. Six years old, and he knew Pops was a good guy. He loved Momma, and he loved his boys.
That’s what a Pops was for…so why did looking at him make his tummy ache, why did looking at that smile make him throw up again on Momma’s blouse?
The answers were there, but he couldn’t see them…not when his Momma and his Pops were right. Parents were always right, and as he grew up he would forget that they were ever wrong.
It would take him ten years to remember…and ten years to finally stop puking.
Muse: Mays Ryder
Fandom: Highlander (OC)
Words: 409 (w/o lyrics)
What to be and what to fear
Look up to me
Look it's me, at what you hear
See right through me
See the one who can't be free
See right through me
Look it's me what no one wants to see
Mays Ryder, Sr. was a man that could paint a picture.
Little Mays could see it as his father told the story yet again about the Bastard Immortal that had nearly killed him. He showed his sons the scar on his neck from the blade that nearly took his head, told the tale about the vicious, soulless man that would have spit on him before showing any mercy.
Little six year old Mays could see the blood on the imaginary blade of his father’s sword as he mimed slicing off the man-dragon’s head, could feel the hot arterial spray on his face even though he was too young to know what arterial spray was. It was vivid in his mind, a picture painted with words like ‘scarlet stream’ and a long ode to the short and desperate breaths the severed head took as it lay on the ground.
He could hear the thunder and lightning of the Quickening in Pop’s voice. It shook his small frame and made pale features ghost white as the child retched on the carpet once again, spoiling family story time.
“He’s too young to be hearing this, Mays…too sick! Little May, come to me.”
His mother’s arms were warm, but he still felt cold as he crawled into her embrace and laid his head on her shoulder. Pop’s smile was warm and comforting…and yet it still made Little Mays very cold inside.
“Nah, it’s just another flu bug…there wasn’t any cheese in that casserole you made tonight, was there, Jen?”
“No, Mays, there wasn’t. I know my boy’s lactose intolerant…poor Baby May, what is it that makes you so sick all the time?”
He wanted to tell her she was right about the stories. He wanted to forget the words that rang with thunder and bloodshed and evil. Evil words…yet his father was a good man. Six years old, and he knew Pops was a good guy. He loved Momma, and he loved his boys.
That’s what a Pops was for…so why did looking at him make his tummy ache, why did looking at that smile make him throw up again on Momma’s blouse?
The answers were there, but he couldn’t see them…not when his Momma and his Pops were right. Parents were always right, and as he grew up he would forget that they were ever wrong.
It would take him ten years to remember…and ten years to finally stop puking.
Muse: Mays Ryder
Fandom: Highlander (OC)
Words: 409 (w/o lyrics)