Part 1 viewtopic.php?f=153&t=34447
Part 2 viewtopic.php?f=26&t=34448
Part 3 viewtopic.php?f=153&t=34450
CONTENT WARNING: Depictions of mild violence, allusions to self harm.
The Twilight Isle, Five Days Ago
Only standing around 5'10", his age seeming to have stunted the past few years, Stark's attire seemed to never change; the old leather overshirt he'd worn for years still being his chest-piece of choice. Black pants and boots seemed to still be the same, as well. He may as well be standing in the rain, the way he felt -- all he could feel was the pain of... everything. His entire life, all mulling up. Why was he like this?
Stark stood in the darkness, staring at the lights of the house in the distance. His vision blurred, especially around the fringes from tears that now were soaking his face, his light stubble. Just a boy of maybe eighteen, he kept wiping at his face, clearing them away, just for the well to keep flowing.
He moved closer to the house, limply dropping his arm. He'd only seen her from afar, and not in quite some time. If thought, maybe, if he could see her again, he'd feel better. Maybe just a little. Maybe a hug. Maybe tell him how much she missed him.
He crept closer to the house, quietly as he could, trying to numb the pain, both mental and physical, as his left hand wrapped around his right wrist, and he groaned lightly.
He heard footsteps approach, the sound of her voice. He saw purple hair, purple eyes, the tattoos... The sensations hit him so fast, it was like a dream, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come," he heard someone say his name against, but within a matter of moments his shadows swallowed him, and he couldn't even tell if it'd really happened.
Unknown Place, aboard the Tiamat
He retreated to his own world, back upon Tiamat - though not the one Fae would know. He burst through the Captain's quarters doors. It still scented of his mother after all these years. He approached the Captains desk, and slammed both palms down on it, staring at the last parchment he left. It was the portrait of a woman, tan skin, squiggly tattoos marked her arms and pink hair poured in a giant mass from her head. It also was not particularly good, in terms of art, having been cobbled together with acrylic paints, though it did roughly resemble the muse, Lilith. He grabbed the brush, shoved into the black paint vial beside him, then began writing I MISS YOU over and over across the whole page. He winced in pain, grabbed his right wrist, scowling, before throwing the brush across the quarters in rage then collapsed into the chair and dropped his hands into his face. "Why am I like this? Mom? Just tell me why I'm so broken..."
"Again, boy," a voice called from a dark corner. A figure moved forward and seemed to suppress the candle light with shadows. "Why, indeed. Why are you so weak?"
"Shut up," Stark belted out at it. "I just am, okay? We both know it. We've always known it."
"Isn't that why I'm here," the voice asked. The light still dared not cross him. Darkness out the windows flashed with lightning, and when thunder was meant to roll in, all Stark could hear were tormented screams.
"How are you even here? You're not supposed to come unless I let you,” Stark choked out, collapsing backwards into the chair and letting his head roll dramatically.
"That's a very good question," the voice answered. Though deeper, it was the same voice. "It I didn't come out, you'd be dead, and not just with a broken wrist."
"What do you know? I control you," Stark sniped.
"Why haven't you healed your wrist, boy," the voice asked.
"Because I don't want to," he snorted.
"Because you're weak. We both know why. Your first pathetic tapestry," the voice said in retort. Its presence moved even closer, defying the light, mostly. Only a pale hand emerged, worn fingers pressing to the parchment, lifting it for eyes deep within the darkness to examine. "You miss her, do you? You just saw her."
"Stop," Stark whimpered.
The hand discarded to parchment, to the floor, onto a scattered pile if many. They all were littered with words - everything from poems to exclamations of love. I love you. I need you. Love me. Why won't you love me? Why not me? Many of them were far better untl very recently, the art got suddenly worse. "Weak. You're so weak and pathetic."
"I am not, shut up" Stark sneered curling into the chair.
The figure moved inhumanly fast, it's motion jittering, as it moved to the other side of the desk before the young man. The hand reached out and snagged Stark's right forearm, wrenching it up. "Why won't you heal your arm, boy?"
"FREK! STOP," Stark shrieked. "Stop! It hurts! I control you!"
"No," said the voice. "I do what you want me to do," he said. "You're doing this to yourself, and you're too weak to stop."
"Shut up," Stark was crying again. "Let me go," he pleaded, squirming.
Another hand came from the darkness and pulled Starks sleeve up, exposing several jagged scars along his arm. "Look at them," it said.
"Shup up," Stark replied.
"Look at them," it retorted.
"No," Stark sneered. "NO," Stark yelled. "NO," Stark screamed.
The hands vanished into dark wisps. "Why are you so weak," it asked in a finale, as Stark fell out of the chair, onto the floor, sobbing. After a moment, it began to subside, and pushed himself up, sitting on the floor, lethargically. He pulled himself up weakly, using the desk, and sat himself heavily into the chair. He opened the desk drawer to reveal two daggers. His mother's. Dried blood was on the tip of each.
He thought about Lilith. He could go talk to her. He could go see her. He could watch her happy without him. He could see how better she was without him. He could go burden her with his weakness and pain.
Instead, he sniffed mucus hard, and picked one of the daggers up.
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Nightmares and Legacies (Part 4)
A place for stories beyond the gates of Rhy'Din
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Re: Nightmares and Legacies (Part 4)
Post by The MAGGUSS Legacies »
Part five can be found here: viewtopic.php?f=153&t=34464
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