:: memory zero :: iwanthimtobesafe ::

May 30, 2008 15:50

[ reference :: the dream.  super-skrull dialog taken from Young Avengers ch. 11 & 12 ]

...

In his dream, he’s falling through the open skies over a vast city; he’s falling and his body is burning.

You are my liege, I am certain of it.

He’s tumbling, quickly, head over heels and back again, cutting through the air with a great tear of noiseless wind. Arms outstretched upwards as if reaching to catch upon the clouds. His hands are strange and oddly misshapen, the fingers jointed and skeletal in ways not entirely human. Beneath his skin there is a writhing of some uncontrolled thing, as if his muscles were eels trapped within his flesh, now rebelling and contorting in flails of endless panic. He blinks, and the strangeness is gone; the palms smooth and the fingers slightly callused, the hands of any normal teenage boy. With them, he scrambles as he continues to fall ever downward, but there is nothing around him, only air and wind, and his desperate hands fail to find purchase.

My mission was to make you Emperor.

When he looks up, he sees it, a firefight spread across that canvas of sky - flickers of light, reds and blues, arc across the sky in an endless volley. Two armies spill forth from their warships like great pools of ink, staining the sky with purples and greens. When the two groups touch, violence bleeds between them, and men - or are they monsters - begin to fall through the air like ripe fruit freshly shaken from the branch. Their bodies, heavy with death, whiz past him.

Be assured I will not rest until you have reclaimed your throne.

He suddenly realizes that this is his war - fought not by him but for him, and without his consent. Like some discarded trophy, some misplaced spoil, he tumbles ever onward and downward; the tops of all the buildings start to loom and grow in their menace. And just when he thinks he’s about to impact, a pause. A sudden moment of stillness and silence envelops him quickly, and there, in the space above him is a boy. Dark hair, dark eyes, a lingering gentleness to his expression, a red cloak whipping around him despite the quick ceasing of wind. With a hand, the young man reaches out and grasps him firmly on the wrist, and for an instant, they remain suspended together, before the world returns around them in a rush of chaos and sound.

Your people - your family - need you.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere,” the boy says with determination set hard on his face, the corners of his lips turned upwards in what could almost be a smile. Then, everything is awash with an electric blue light, its tendrils crawling up his caught arm like wildly growing vines. Its touch is frightening, but familiar, and oddly enough, it comforts him, cradles him, and feels as necessary to him as breathing. Somewhere beneath the cacophony of battle is a distant voice, soft and familiar and whispering like prayer, the same words, an incantation, over and over again: “IwanthimtobesafeIwanthimtobesafeIwanthimtobesafe…”

Forgive me, your highness, but I insist.

“Wiccan,” he whispers without understanding its meaning, and then he’s gone. The boy, the light, the war - everything, gone. Just him, in the darkness, naked and alone. The taste of ash is bitter and fresh in his mouth; hot tears sting his eyes and his cheeks.

The war will continue.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” his says, the words a memory across his lips.

To save us all, you have to ascend.

ooc, the child emperor, the truth of memory, the changeling, dark eyes dark hair pale skin

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