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 Posted: Thu Oct 11, 2012 1:59 pm
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Dark.
Nothing left to light his path, he's lost in the tumultuous undertow of utter heartbreak. He can't help but feel as if this could all be changed, morphed back to the days where he was more carefree and forgiving of himself and those around him. He can't help but wonder where his future will take him, and he can't help but wonder - for inexplicable reasons - if he'd done the right thing in letting her go.
Despite the gentler emotions that tumble through his mind, there's a relentlessly nagging ache. Demanding of him, always there and always needy. Never allowing for a single, forgiving breath - never allowing him to forget just for a moment. Forever present.
He focuses on this, now. All else is banished. She's gone, thanks to him: that one momentous warmth that nurtured him. Gone.
His skin, though chilled by death, feels hot and uncomfortable. A beast, forever gluttonous, worms deep in his gut. It spreads through his chest and legs, his back and shoulders. Something has ignited. It burns, wanton and unabashed.
She's gone.
He didn't try to stop her. She'll find another, of this he has no doubt. They flock to her, everyone does: such a warm and friendly ghoul has lots of friends and admirers.
As the tears dry on his cheeks, he gives farewell.
But he doesn't mean it. Not yet.
He'll never admit that he needs her still. He will not be the one to destroy her. More than anyone, she deserves to be happy.
He has been devoured, consumed alive by something he doesn't understand - by something he cannot put a finger on. An ache. A deep, revengeful, need for power. It is the only time he feels almost normal. He directs his attention from the pain to the darker emotions that roil about in his gut.
Power. Destruction. He feels crazed, restless. He rises to his feet, a stillness about him that is deceptive to his true feelings. He wants to crush everything around him, he wants to howl, he wants to run. He wants to feel bones crushing in his fist, he wants to taste the blood of his enemies on his lips, he wants to hear the broken cries of battered men.
He cannot find these things here. Instead, he is forced to relive the trance-world over and over again. Each time his actions pass through his mind he cannot help but feel as if he is slipping away from himself. He cannot help but wonder if there is a way to lose himself once more like he had on the Isles.
He cannot.
It is a terrifying realization.
He finds himself grasping at the tattered wisps of memories of her that get harder to recall as each moment passes. It doesn't matter: they pale in comparison to what he truly wants, what he truly needs.
Destruction. Power. Rage. Power, power, power. He craves it like a sick and burning poison-drug. Nothing else matters - for a moment her face flashes before his mind's eye once more, but then she is gone and he is alone again. Alone with the consuming darkness that pulses in his chest and twines throughout his mind like thick curls of acrid smoke.
He is better off alone. In this moment, as he focuses on the sharp tingle of anticipation that shimmers across his skin, he does not miss her. He does not miss her - perhaps because he does not want to hurt her, or perhaps because he has found a new love.
She is dark and curved, she is sharp and brilliant, she is seductive and bitter on his tongue. She whispers black verses to him, cooing sweetly into his soul. She calls to him like a siren, reminding him of what he needs and wants - and it is not the honey-pale face of the one that he lost, but it is the dark and mysterious face of what he desires - he only needs to find her. She is everything evil and horrible that writhes within him. She is all that he needs. She is horror and death. She is power and destruction. She is his.
It is his.
Power. Destruction. More, more, more.
A calm settles over him. It is better this way.
His eyes slip shut. There is nothing but a dark void swirling across the backs of his eyelids. It is peaceful there in the black nothingness. He has done the right thing - perhaps for the last time. The path to be forged is not something that he can see now in the black fog, but he knows he will find a way to feel the way he had before, back in the trance. That was the only time he'd ever felt like himself.
He would feel that way again.
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Posted: Fri Oct 12, 2012 2:46 pm
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Torment.
He warred with himself each and every passing moment that slipped by him. It would be so easy to change. It would be so easy to once more find himself at her doorstep, to take her up in his arms, to bury his face once more in the crook of her neck and just inhale her sweet scent. He'd stared at his closed door five, eight, twelve times while pacing his dorm room.
The solitude was comforting, but his thoughts were anything but.
He'd given the hunger a form in his mind, a body and even a face. It helped to deal with the ache that was dwelling inside of him. Giving human-like characteristics to the poised and needy emotion in his chest made things more tolerable. He couldn't explain it, and it hurt to even try.
I want her.
You need me.
I need her.
You want me.
Was he going crazy? Was this some sort of oddity borne of insanity? Herryk didn't know. He couldn't tell. He did not feel as if he were being watched. He did not hear any other voice but his own and that of the deep, pulsing hurt that writhed and wormed and coiled upon itself, eating away everything he'd thought he was and leaving nothing behind but the same constant ache, the almost-there mist of memory that faded just before he could grasp it.
It was the way it has been since before he could remember. The trance showed him that. The trance and then once more when he fought himself. Even then, as a wolf, he relished those memories more than anything else. The only time he ever felt he belonged, the only time he ever felt as if he were himself - it was the times that he held the weapon in his hands. The hefty weight of salted leather, the glistening blade, the familiar way his hand curved along the hilt and the way his callouses seemed to embrace the weapon.
As if he'd been made for it. As if it had been made for him.
She'd felt that way once. As if she'd been created just for him, each curve and niche of her body suiting his in a way that no other ever had, and no other ever would. She'd felt that way once, but no longer.
Something twisted in his chest.
Something gave, something shattered, splintered, ruptured.
It hurt.
He shoved it aside.
Something would have to change. He tired of living his life this way, of brooding and yearning for something that was just out of reach. He wanted to return to the forest where he'd first wakened, to sink back into the dark musty earth, to close his eyes and just forget - be forgotten.
He wanted - yearned - to feel the weight of a weapon once more in his hand, he needed to slake his urges for bloodlust on the field of battle, he ached to kill and maim with the real possibility of death. He wanted to hurt, he wanted to feel, he wanted to be whoever or whatever he was in the time before all of this.
For the first time since radio club, since his last fight with her, Herryk dressed himself in sweatpants and sneakers, donned a too-small tee-shirt that boasted Amityville High across the chest - and he ran.
He ran to nowhere, and he ran from everything. He ran in hopes of clarity, though none would be found. For a moment, he ran to her - but only for a moment.
Perhaps if he ran long enough, if he pushed himself hard enough, the answers would rain down upon him as if they'd been there in front of him the entire time, but he'd just been too dense to see them.
The answers never came, only the reminder of what had been - what he had lost - and what he had yet to achieve.
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Posted: Sun Oct 14, 2012 10:14 am
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Quote: Sometimes it felt impossible to actually feel so torn, so battered and broken. Sometimes he held nothing but regret in his chest, but deep down - when he really stopped to think about it - he realized how broken they'd become. She had her own demons to battle, as did he - and neither knew how to save the other. Bleak as it ever was, there was only one path laid out for him. A solitary path, a dark voyage into the endless black. There was nothing left for him now, and while he thrived on the rush of adrenaline that trickled along his spine... Herryk knew that he was out of options. The churning hurt lodged in his throat, spread to his chest and settled in his stomach like hot molten lead. The beast had been awakened, the beast had been ignored - but the beast would not be tamed. The beast could not be tamed. He was helpless to stop it.
Quote: He'd been watching the boil for days now. A reaper - how fitting - with short dark hair and a plain scythe for a weapon. A bashful, shy sort. Weak, unsure about his own abilities. It had been pure chance, their initial meeting, but days later as Herryk watched the boil reading a book in a park, the draugr was not himself. There was a darkness on his face, an expression that was hardened by loss and contorted with hunger. This was about destruction and fear. This was about death and power. This was about the consuming need to feel as if he were himself once more, and perhaps it was about a soul-crushing resentment that he was who - and what - he was. The boil didn't see what hit him. It was disappointing, really, how quickly the boil dissipated - a quick crushing grip and then he was gone, leaving Herryk feeling something almost like outrage, and a stunning urge to do it again. And again. And again. For a quick moment, a flash of an instant, he had been taken back to that moment where nothing mattered but the thrill of battle. It was gone just as soon as it'd flickered, and once more Herryk was left hungry and aching.
Quote: A never ending circle of destruction. He'd confined himself to his room after coming to terms with what he'd done - and the knowledge that he'd do it again - and as he sat in the high-backed chair near the window of his dorm, an overwhelming sense of loneliness overcame him. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught sight of Nanna and the two fluffs that Freya had given him. Out of all of his poofs, those were the three that he'd kept. The rest had been given away to random strangers or friends. He had no use for them now. He should return them to her. He ached to look at them, just as he ached to look at the bed he'd shared with her during their time together. He hadn't rested in it since their last fight, and he knew that he'd never be able to rest in it again without being reminded of her. Rubbing his chest where his heart lay still, Herryk turned back to his window and once more lost himself in his dark thoughts, eyelids slipping down over glowing blue eyes. A war raged deep inside of him. He was on the losing side.
Quote: For the past three nights he'd gone out, alone, clad in nothing but a loose swathe of linen tied about his hips. He moved quietly, quickly throughout the shadows despite his large size. There was a purpose about him, this tall dark stranger that crept through the darkest recesses of the school grounds. For the past three nights there had undoubtedly been reports of a large dark figure - undefinable at best, but extremely powerful - assaulting and dissipating various students at Amity. One for each night. All reapers, for unknown reasons: a dark-haired boil with a scythe, a shy be-freckled redheaded ghoul with a small mouse familiar, and a soft-spoken bookish blonde boil with wire-rimmed glasses and a large staff weapon. All small, all fairly new to school, all in the wrong place at the wrong time. None had given him the rush that he'd hoped to find. Despite the horrendous fear he'd seen in their eyes, none had sated the raging, gnawing ache that roiled deep inside of him.
Quote: Desperation. Depression. Hurt, ache, pain. There were times that he broke through the fog that entombed his thoughts. These moments of clarity were the moments that he missed her desperately. He ached to hold her against him, and yearned to bury his face alongside her neck so that he could breathe deeply of her scent. These were the moments that her blue eyes pierced his very soul, and these were the moments that he wanted nothing more than to feel her arms wrapped tightly around him, to hear her sweet voice whispering in his ear - assuring him that all would be well, that they would get through this together, that she would help him, that she would love him, that she would save him. These were the times that he wept. He did not blame her, but he hated himself. These clear breaks in an otherwise clouded mentality were growing farther and farther apart. He would surface only to feel these deep, gnashing pangs of hurt - and he would allow the darkness to ensconce him once more. It was easier this way. He could tolerate the darkness. He could deal with the hungering shadows. He could not deal with the loss of her. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. |
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Posted: Mon Oct 15, 2012 11:52 am
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Quote: He did the only thing that he could think to do. He left. It was just a small respite from the thoughts that tormented him. He rationalized that leaving might provide him with clarity. Perhaps if he left school just for a week or so, maybe when he came back things might right themselves. He knew it wouldn't work. He knew that all would be the same upon his return, but he couldn't not hope for the best. There was only one place for him to go. "Ye go for months without comin' te see me, boil, and then ye just show up here at my doorstep and I can't help but be glad te see ye." "Svella." " Kom inn, kom inn," the little gnarled woman waved her claw-like hands at him, a smile bright upon her face. Herryk placed a small package in her hands before unloading the pack he wore. "How long do ye plan te be stayin'? Se hvor høy du har fått." Look how big you've gotten. She chuckled softly and patted his chest, slipping past him so that she could open the small gift he'd brought. "Herryk does not know - a week, not longer - and," a few muffled yips sounded from the bundle that Herryk held, "Herryk hopes that his heks mor does not mind that he brought a few friends." Nanna unveiled herself, quickly followed by the other unnamed poofs he'd kept. Freya's gifts. His chest ached briefly before the emotion was drowned out. "Tch, ye brought some pups with ye, then! Ain't they th' sweetest little babes." Svella lifted her rheumy gaze, narrowed it at the expression that had drifted across Herryk's face. He caught the look. " Senere.." Later. She let it slide, and quietly let him settle. Something was wrong with the boil she considered her son. She knew him well, and Svella knew that he would talk when he was ready.
Quote: He told her everything. The isles. How things had started off well there. How he'd learned so much. He'd handled weapons. It felt right. He went into great detail about Medea's trance. He told her how it felt to kill humans - even though he knew it had all been a vision that had been imposed on him - and he left nothing out. He told her about his feelings, how perfect it felt to be a killing machine, how easily the flesh of humans gave way to nothing but pulpy mush. He described the scent of blood, how real it felt, how it still tainted his nostrils with its cloyingly metallic scent. He told her about the memories that consumed him. He spoke of making every attempt to distract himself. Radio club. Prom. Battle of the bands. He detailed each and every way he'd attempted to ignore the emotions that choked him. He told her of his every failure. In quieter tones, he spoke of Freya. How ridiculous he felt her poor self-image was, how he felt that perhaps he failed her just a little bit. When tears threatened to clog his throat, he paused - but he would continue to speak of the valkyrie with steeled resolve. It was his fault that she did not feel beautiful enough, in his mind - and perhaps that little failure had been his undoing. He spoke of his love lost, pure and warm and glowing. He spoke of his love gained, dark and abrasive and seductive. There was a silence that stretched between the undead and his mother-figure, a soft quietude that soothed the raw wounds that he'd reopened by telling her what he had. The raw wounds that wept blood and sorrow as he continued. Herryk spoke of the things he'd done, how he'd been helpless to stop himself. He did not speak shamefully about his actions, but with a deep disregard for his own self-preservation in his search for true power and destruction. Svella was silent through it all. Her chest ached for him, but the world was not a pretty place filled with flowers and cupcakes and rainbows - and in truth, she'd always feared that he'd grow restless. There had always been the low thrum of barbarism that she wasn't even sure he'd recognized. Perhaps his ghoul had kept it at bay, and losing her had truly been his undoing. He was killing himself. She saw it for what it was, and she saw there was no way to change his mind.
Quote: "Keep Nanna." "Boil." Svella narrowed her eyes. Her thin lips tightened, the grooves and creases of her face deepening in dismay. " Vennligst gjør dette for Herryk." His expression was hard, but his voice deceptively soft. Please do this for Herryk.Svella sighed and ran her fingers along the foxfire's coat. The winged poof nestled closer against the witch's wiry frame: the very pinnacle of happiness. Herryk would trust no other with the little pet. He narrowed his eyes with a brief nod, packing away the last two foxfires that were left. The two Freya had given him. He turned back to Svella. " Takk. For alt dette. For å hjelpe. Det er ment mye." Svella knew what the words meant. A farewell. A forever farewell. Thank you. For all of this. For helping. It's meant a lot."Tch." The sound was low and gruff. She knew it would probably be the last time she saw him. |
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Posted: Mon Oct 15, 2012 3:06 pm
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Posted: Wed Oct 17, 2012 2:34 pm
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Posted: Mon Dec 03, 2012 3:43 pm
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