A Storm Without End | Original Fiction |
Aug. 7th, 2010 02:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
siehnThis is a piece from a 'verse we like to call Tkini. It is wholly original fiction and the characters involved in this belong solely to me.
Feedback is better than chocolate.
There is nothing but empty space. He is weightless; floating in a wellspring of black darkness that makes his skin crawl, and his scalp itches in the most annoying way. He cannot reach to scratch it, bound as he is. His mind is split, running in circles, constantly looping in some misguided attempt to protect his sanity.
What remains?
Who am I?
Blank silence eats away at his resolve, providing it’s own kind of deafening roar that echoes over and over in his head; white noise encased in black silence. The darkness crawls over him like some cold, unfeeling presence, making his skin twitch and spasm beneath the dank, cold touches violating his body; stealing from him that which is his alone. Safety. Security.
They are all lies.
He is drowning, the blackness filling his lungs and closing around his very essence, suffocating him. It is ink pouring into him, staining his soul with the absence of light, and he knows he will never be whole again.
What? What am I missing? I must find you, find you, find you, find --
Breathe.
He cannot. There is no breath to be had. Each inhalation brings in more darkness, choking him, and his lungs are seared by fire; the pressure is building in his chest. He closes eyes he doesn’t remember opening, panic setting in as his limbs flail and he gasps for every breath that will not come, the struggle robbing him of his composure as surely as the inkwell of darkness is stealing his soul.
A memory flickers to life in his mind’s eye. It is in sharp relief, the colors vibrant and full of the life he is so rapidly losing. He strains, reaching towards it with everything he is as it plays before him in Technicolor.
“Is there any way you can save me from this hell?” Pleading, stoic, darkness threading through his words though he walks proudly in the light. Those crimson eyes, so like his father’s, are bright and vivid; standing out more than the glittering white of the snow. There is only one answer he can give to his son, damning him as he has always been damned. It is up to another to save him from the dark madness.
It echoes in his thoughts, always spiraling out of control, forever repeated in that voice. Dark. Deceptive. Soft.
Betrayer. Betrayed.
Damned at birth by blood to be haunted forever by the darkness, but named for the light of a flame.
There is a name, there, teasing the edges of his conscious mind, but never coming into full realization. He grasps for it, an animalistic snarl rippling through him in sheer frustration as it slips away, sinking back into the black chaos of his mind.
Who am I?
Silver light like stars in the night sky.
A feeling like home.
Then: pain! Endless, agonizing pain ripping through his nervous system with abandon. Liquid fire replaces the blood in his veins, boiling as it rushes through his body. He jerks, body arching and head thrown back without care. There is nothing in his world except agony. He exists only to feel the pain inflicted upon him.
Punishment. Does he deserve this?
Who’s the mighty God now? Taunts and a feeling of mocking malevolence from the dark. His mind trips up, the endless loops freezing as something comes alive.
Somewhere inside silver light flares, igniting his core with a power long ago lost. There is something within, burning, and he opens his silver eyes.
He remembers, and there is that deafening silence again. A pause; a moment at the edge, as he gathers the faith to leap blindly into the darkness. He takes a deep breath, relishing the burn in his chest because he knows, quite simply, that he is alive.
Who am I? Light erupts, bright silver like the cold moonrise, enveloping everything in it’s path.
NightGodMoonriseStormWithoutEnd
Who am I?
He screams, and his chains are broken by silver light.
Tempest
Feedback is better than chocolate.
There is nothing but empty space. He is weightless; floating in a wellspring of black darkness that makes his skin crawl, and his scalp itches in the most annoying way. He cannot reach to scratch it, bound as he is. His mind is split, running in circles, constantly looping in some misguided attempt to protect his sanity.
What remains?
Who am I?
Blank silence eats away at his resolve, providing it’s own kind of deafening roar that echoes over and over in his head; white noise encased in black silence. The darkness crawls over him like some cold, unfeeling presence, making his skin twitch and spasm beneath the dank, cold touches violating his body; stealing from him that which is his alone. Safety. Security.
They are all lies.
He is drowning, the blackness filling his lungs and closing around his very essence, suffocating him. It is ink pouring into him, staining his soul with the absence of light, and he knows he will never be whole again.
What? What am I missing? I must find you, find you, find you, find --
Breathe.
He cannot. There is no breath to be had. Each inhalation brings in more darkness, choking him, and his lungs are seared by fire; the pressure is building in his chest. He closes eyes he doesn’t remember opening, panic setting in as his limbs flail and he gasps for every breath that will not come, the struggle robbing him of his composure as surely as the inkwell of darkness is stealing his soul.
A memory flickers to life in his mind’s eye. It is in sharp relief, the colors vibrant and full of the life he is so rapidly losing. He strains, reaching towards it with everything he is as it plays before him in Technicolor.
“Is there any way you can save me from this hell?” Pleading, stoic, darkness threading through his words though he walks proudly in the light. Those crimson eyes, so like his father’s, are bright and vivid; standing out more than the glittering white of the snow. There is only one answer he can give to his son, damning him as he has always been damned. It is up to another to save him from the dark madness.
It echoes in his thoughts, always spiraling out of control, forever repeated in that voice. Dark. Deceptive. Soft.
Betrayer. Betrayed.
Damned at birth by blood to be haunted forever by the darkness, but named for the light of a flame.
There is a name, there, teasing the edges of his conscious mind, but never coming into full realization. He grasps for it, an animalistic snarl rippling through him in sheer frustration as it slips away, sinking back into the black chaos of his mind.
Who am I?
Silver light like stars in the night sky.
A feeling like home.
Then: pain! Endless, agonizing pain ripping through his nervous system with abandon. Liquid fire replaces the blood in his veins, boiling as it rushes through his body. He jerks, body arching and head thrown back without care. There is nothing in his world except agony. He exists only to feel the pain inflicted upon him.
Punishment. Does he deserve this?
Who’s the mighty God now? Taunts and a feeling of mocking malevolence from the dark. His mind trips up, the endless loops freezing as something comes alive.
Somewhere inside silver light flares, igniting his core with a power long ago lost. There is something within, burning, and he opens his silver eyes.
He remembers, and there is that deafening silence again. A pause; a moment at the edge, as he gathers the faith to leap blindly into the darkness. He takes a deep breath, relishing the burn in his chest because he knows, quite simply, that he is alive.
Who am I? Light erupts, bright silver like the cold moonrise, enveloping everything in it’s path.
NightGodMoonriseStormWithoutEnd
Who am I?
He screams, and his chains are broken by silver light.
Tempest
