Word #37
Title: Creation's Envy
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
A/N: A view of... Michali's evil twin, one could say. What happen when a character exceeds its bounds, and then can't get back to where he wants to be.
He would do it, this time.
Fingers digging in to the smooth white flesh of the parchment in front of him, he clentched and pulled, ripping it away. Not that one. That one wouldn't work. This one... This time, he would do it.
Hunching, gripping, reaching, he slowly drew the lines along the paper, painstakingly. Every one had to be just right. Had to be perfect, for the magic to work. The power to come alive. He had it - he knew he did. It was his right, his birthright to claim.
His power. His claim. His stake. His... home...
Wrist convulsing, the edge of the quill dug and tripped, pulling up precious fibre, ink spitting.
Moaning low, he brought his hands to his face, smearing tacky black along the lines of his cheek and beside his eyes. Throwing the pen down, he ripped the offended paper away, clearing it to smooth white again, crumpling the damaged, tortured piece and throwing it to the floor. Twisted. Forgotten. The words lay furrled and unfinished, a mantra, a creation not meant to be.
"Once Upon A..."
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
A/N: A view of... Michali's evil twin, one could say. What happen when a character exceeds its bounds, and then can't get back to where he wants to be.
He would do it, this time.
Fingers digging in to the smooth white flesh of the parchment in front of him, he clentched and pulled, ripping it away. Not that one. That one wouldn't work. This one... This time, he would do it.
Hunching, gripping, reaching, he slowly drew the lines along the paper, painstakingly. Every one had to be just right. Had to be perfect, for the magic to work. The power to come alive. He had it - he knew he did. It was his right, his birthright to claim.
His power. His claim. His stake. His... home...
Wrist convulsing, the edge of the quill dug and tripped, pulling up precious fibre, ink spitting.
Moaning low, he brought his hands to his face, smearing tacky black along the lines of his cheek and beside his eyes. Throwing the pen down, he ripped the offended paper away, clearing it to smooth white again, crumpling the damaged, tortured piece and throwing it to the floor. Twisted. Forgotten. The words lay furrled and unfinished, a mantra, a creation not meant to be.
"Once Upon A..."