REVENANT: PART II: Earth [Prompt 53]
Title: Revenant
’Verse/characters: Revenant/Celestienne
Prompt: #53 Earth
Word Count: 247
Rating: PG
Series Summary: In a post-apocalyptic future, a single pocket of Eden remains where a handful of survivors dwell. And then, there are those who were created for this world...
The closest Celestienne ever comes to flying anymore is when he's on the run, panther-sleek and wild with the madness whirling through his head, the ground a blur beneath his feet. On into nowhere, chasing the void. Catching only a still image of her face, its true memory obscured by the darkness that ever eludes him. Blood spirals up through his veins, trickling into his heart, one drop at a time, like scarlet stars winking to life inside a dying sky. This is instinct, not reason.
It is not his own blood.
But everything is dead here now, anyway. He's all the world has left: only him and the tight corridor of stick-figure trees clawing at his white silhouette. Only him and his footsteps crashing through a carpet of rusted leaves, and the shadows that rear their faceless heads among the spaces in-between.
And the voices whispering in tongues inside his ear.
He falls into the clearing, skidding to a halt on his knees. Mist from the earth, from his body, from his lips, rises to veil a full moon. Over his head, its circle of sickly red light haloes a ring of gaunt black treetops. Slowly, everything grows still. In this moment, he lets himself love the solid velvet feel of the night-damp earth under his fingertips, while the joy of the chase still smoulders against his skin.
But now the voices are screaming, and the shadows are on the move again.
’Verse/characters: Revenant/Celestienne
Prompt: #53 Earth
Word Count: 247
Rating: PG
Series Summary: In a post-apocalyptic future, a single pocket of Eden remains where a handful of survivors dwell. And then, there are those who were created for this world...
The closest Celestienne ever comes to flying anymore is when he's on the run, panther-sleek and wild with the madness whirling through his head, the ground a blur beneath his feet. On into nowhere, chasing the void. Catching only a still image of her face, its true memory obscured by the darkness that ever eludes him. Blood spirals up through his veins, trickling into his heart, one drop at a time, like scarlet stars winking to life inside a dying sky. This is instinct, not reason.
It is not his own blood.
But everything is dead here now, anyway. He's all the world has left: only him and the tight corridor of stick-figure trees clawing at his white silhouette. Only him and his footsteps crashing through a carpet of rusted leaves, and the shadows that rear their faceless heads among the spaces in-between.
And the voices whispering in tongues inside his ear.
He falls into the clearing, skidding to a halt on his knees. Mist from the earth, from his body, from his lips, rises to veil a full moon. Over his head, its circle of sickly red light haloes a ring of gaunt black treetops. Slowly, everything grows still. In this moment, he lets himself love the solid velvet feel of the night-damp earth under his fingertips, while the joy of the chase still smoulders against his skin.
But now the voices are screaming, and the shadows are on the move again.