Post by Grayell on Nov 20, 2011 6:28:43 GMT -5
His hair was drenched and plastered to his face, his shoulders and chest. His eyes were narrow, batting as rain drove at his face. His breath shuddered from his chest, inadvertently spitting water from his lips, him licking them as if to dry them in the onslaught of this storm.
Lightning crashed above him and painted every puddle an instantly brilliant lens, the fireworks in the heavens reflected in a weak imitation of such grand power. The moon peeked between the rolling clouds, lightning behind him now; throwing his shadow to the edge of the cliff. The rain hammered, drove and did not let up, puddles and pools caught in the light, creating the canvas for ever expanding rings colliding in chaos as the drops crashed into the ground.
The rain whipped in the wind under his chin, it winding down his throat and smearing across his bare chest as the maelstrom tore at his form. It did not phase him, he stood resolute and in a way ignorant of the storm and the danger it presented. The cold and the wet could kill him, he knew this but it did no matter. His fists, clenched at his sides; turned slowly and toyed with the water as it fell from his bunched hands, streaming off him as though he were little else than a rock monolith in the face of this storm.
His feet shifted, naked on the rocks, the dirt and the grass. His mind paid a measure of attention here, it felt the earth beneath and grounded him, loaned him it's strength. A foundation. Something secure. His right foot, his favoured foot; turned and twisted in the mud and grit and only halted as the earthen ooze wept up through his toes. His lip twitched, a hint of something casual or perhaps amused only toying with the very corner of his mouth. It did not last but was instead cast away as his nostrils flared and he dragged more of the cold, wet air into his lungs.
He was pale, his skin less of a contrast to his hair. His lips were purplish blue, something closer to his eyes. Those eyes too had changed, they were cold and determined, uncaring and unemotional, detached and with purpose. He stood naked, hidden from all not by his surroundings but by his location. Bare and brave atop this craggy cliff-top in this mad, vengeful weather none were present to see him. That did not matter. Nothing did. Not now.
Purpose.
He had purpose but had not the tools. He did not have the strength to conquer the insurmountable. Til this time, this recent time; he had had equal measures of strength, skills and stubbornness to see himself through. He had an indomitable spirit, a pure heart and - truth be known - a lust for battle that had seen him forge his way in this world. He knew what he wanted and he took it by the throat, throttled it and drank heartily from it's oozing blood with unrivalled zeal. By the gods, every last blasted one of them, he hated himself without pause, without remorse and it was that blatant disregard of self that had seen himself conquer the unconquerable, that had led him to topple kings both noble and callous, that had witnessed him take everything from life in his worn, beaten and scarred hands and snatched what he wanted from it. This made no sense. He wanted nothing. He was a beast of instinct and impulse and so far removed from a man.
He hated himself still. He did not know why they looked up to him. He did not know why she loved him. Had he come to terms with himself? Yes. Had he chosen to accept who he was? Definitely. He had been told he was cocky. He was confident in an unparalleled manner, he seized who he was and he f**king owned it, he took no shit from nobody. But that did not make him perfect. He knew his shortcomings. He knew his faults. He bluffed past them and he still loathed them, he still felt so entirely weak and wasteful in view of those things. No. He was a fake. He was an act, a purposefully constructed mask built on the back of so much denial and refusal, so much blatant not giving a thought or f**k for anything beyond what he had to. He needed to hold onto that, he needed to be boisterous and loud, he needed to be brave and bold because well... it was all he knew. He had learned to like himself too, but that like was so frail, so fleeting in the face of the storm about him.
The physical storm about him had not given up either. A shard of lightning ruptured from the heavens, it's voice hot on it's tail. It reached down like a rope snapping on a ship's mast in the storm, like the standard of some age old king upon a cliff such as this one - and annihilated the rocks not ten feet from him.
He did not blink. No. He faltered and he fell instead, one knee then two. His hands tried to find substance, tried to hold him up, hold his face, stem the tide. That failed. They shifted to his shoulders, he held himself and grit his teeth, clenched hard to bite back his frailty, swallowed hard to refuse this weakness and again, he failed. His hands held nothing, had nothing for him and instead fell to his sides, empty and slack.
He slumped back to sit on his heels and his mouth opened, so dry and torn in his throat in his need for air and the rising well or anxiety, that palpable pain that wanted to be sick and broke by the wall, had his tears flow. His vision clouded, tears smeared immediately by the relentless rain as it drove him into the ground, beat and scolded him like an abused pup. He searched the writhing ink that was the sky and found nothing, his head lolling to one side as it knew the moon. His eyes met her, the celestial light that tugged at his soul and now he swallowed. A breath stole in, a pathetic breath that had no sincerity, had no will. But it loaned him a voice.
"Why?"
There was no answer. The goddess of the night sky denied him, she drew a veil of cloud about her face and cast him into darkness. It was then that his last tendril of hope, his last strand of false sanity was swept away in the unending wind. He could no stand any longer. He could not fight.
He fell once more. His hands pulled forward and clutched the sides of his face as he remained on his knees, his forehead now kissing the rock before him. He bowed to nothing but was instead made prostrate by the washing away of his will. He was hapless, pathetic before the storm within and without, hands now clutching the back and sides of his head, tugging at his hair.
He dragged a painful rattle of a breath into his starved lungs and that tore down the last of the wall and quite suddenly, his body shook as the sobbing broke from his core, him entirely incapable of holding it back any longer. He could not ride this wave but instead was dragged along, tumbled and tossed into it's depths and left to drown in the very well of his misery. A man broken, shattered and tossed upon the rocks in the aftermath of the storm.
Lightning crashed above him and painted every puddle an instantly brilliant lens, the fireworks in the heavens reflected in a weak imitation of such grand power. The moon peeked between the rolling clouds, lightning behind him now; throwing his shadow to the edge of the cliff. The rain hammered, drove and did not let up, puddles and pools caught in the light, creating the canvas for ever expanding rings colliding in chaos as the drops crashed into the ground.
The rain whipped in the wind under his chin, it winding down his throat and smearing across his bare chest as the maelstrom tore at his form. It did not phase him, he stood resolute and in a way ignorant of the storm and the danger it presented. The cold and the wet could kill him, he knew this but it did no matter. His fists, clenched at his sides; turned slowly and toyed with the water as it fell from his bunched hands, streaming off him as though he were little else than a rock monolith in the face of this storm.
His feet shifted, naked on the rocks, the dirt and the grass. His mind paid a measure of attention here, it felt the earth beneath and grounded him, loaned him it's strength. A foundation. Something secure. His right foot, his favoured foot; turned and twisted in the mud and grit and only halted as the earthen ooze wept up through his toes. His lip twitched, a hint of something casual or perhaps amused only toying with the very corner of his mouth. It did not last but was instead cast away as his nostrils flared and he dragged more of the cold, wet air into his lungs.
He was pale, his skin less of a contrast to his hair. His lips were purplish blue, something closer to his eyes. Those eyes too had changed, they were cold and determined, uncaring and unemotional, detached and with purpose. He stood naked, hidden from all not by his surroundings but by his location. Bare and brave atop this craggy cliff-top in this mad, vengeful weather none were present to see him. That did not matter. Nothing did. Not now.
Purpose.
He had purpose but had not the tools. He did not have the strength to conquer the insurmountable. Til this time, this recent time; he had had equal measures of strength, skills and stubbornness to see himself through. He had an indomitable spirit, a pure heart and - truth be known - a lust for battle that had seen him forge his way in this world. He knew what he wanted and he took it by the throat, throttled it and drank heartily from it's oozing blood with unrivalled zeal. By the gods, every last blasted one of them, he hated himself without pause, without remorse and it was that blatant disregard of self that had seen himself conquer the unconquerable, that had led him to topple kings both noble and callous, that had witnessed him take everything from life in his worn, beaten and scarred hands and snatched what he wanted from it. This made no sense. He wanted nothing. He was a beast of instinct and impulse and so far removed from a man.
He hated himself still. He did not know why they looked up to him. He did not know why she loved him. Had he come to terms with himself? Yes. Had he chosen to accept who he was? Definitely. He had been told he was cocky. He was confident in an unparalleled manner, he seized who he was and he f**king owned it, he took no shit from nobody. But that did not make him perfect. He knew his shortcomings. He knew his faults. He bluffed past them and he still loathed them, he still felt so entirely weak and wasteful in view of those things. No. He was a fake. He was an act, a purposefully constructed mask built on the back of so much denial and refusal, so much blatant not giving a thought or f**k for anything beyond what he had to. He needed to hold onto that, he needed to be boisterous and loud, he needed to be brave and bold because well... it was all he knew. He had learned to like himself too, but that like was so frail, so fleeting in the face of the storm about him.
The physical storm about him had not given up either. A shard of lightning ruptured from the heavens, it's voice hot on it's tail. It reached down like a rope snapping on a ship's mast in the storm, like the standard of some age old king upon a cliff such as this one - and annihilated the rocks not ten feet from him.
He did not blink. No. He faltered and he fell instead, one knee then two. His hands tried to find substance, tried to hold him up, hold his face, stem the tide. That failed. They shifted to his shoulders, he held himself and grit his teeth, clenched hard to bite back his frailty, swallowed hard to refuse this weakness and again, he failed. His hands held nothing, had nothing for him and instead fell to his sides, empty and slack.
He slumped back to sit on his heels and his mouth opened, so dry and torn in his throat in his need for air and the rising well or anxiety, that palpable pain that wanted to be sick and broke by the wall, had his tears flow. His vision clouded, tears smeared immediately by the relentless rain as it drove him into the ground, beat and scolded him like an abused pup. He searched the writhing ink that was the sky and found nothing, his head lolling to one side as it knew the moon. His eyes met her, the celestial light that tugged at his soul and now he swallowed. A breath stole in, a pathetic breath that had no sincerity, had no will. But it loaned him a voice.
"Why?"
There was no answer. The goddess of the night sky denied him, she drew a veil of cloud about her face and cast him into darkness. It was then that his last tendril of hope, his last strand of false sanity was swept away in the unending wind. He could no stand any longer. He could not fight.
He fell once more. His hands pulled forward and clutched the sides of his face as he remained on his knees, his forehead now kissing the rock before him. He bowed to nothing but was instead made prostrate by the washing away of his will. He was hapless, pathetic before the storm within and without, hands now clutching the back and sides of his head, tugging at his hair.
He dragged a painful rattle of a breath into his starved lungs and that tore down the last of the wall and quite suddenly, his body shook as the sobbing broke from his core, him entirely incapable of holding it back any longer. He could not ride this wave but instead was dragged along, tumbled and tossed into it's depths and left to drown in the very well of his misery. A man broken, shattered and tossed upon the rocks in the aftermath of the storm.