^^
He carried not a sword but an axe. His body draped in chain mail and cloth, a darkened hood covering his face as to conceal his profile from curious eyes. He did not wear shining armour with the seal of his Kingdom draped across his chest in vibrant cloth, nor did he have a sword at his hip. His face was not revealed from an iron helmet that was up to reveal his knightly features. Tiberius was not the Knight in Shining armour in your fairytales. He had never been destined for that path.
Instead he was destined for different, for more yet for less, too.
He was a Watcher. He was a Lurker. He was a Killer. He was Protection. He was the raging sound of war as fury ripped from your throat as you brandished your weapon from across the battlefield. He is Wrath. He is Fear. He is a childs broken heart. He is alone.
The beast could not forget. No matter how hard he tried, he could not forget the way he had been made to feel, he could not forget the ghosts that lingered behind every nook and cranny of the Tundra as if they had ever stepped paw there. He doesn't forget when he's asleep, for the little time he does manage to shut his eyes and slumber, broken and short as it is. He doesn't forget when he's awake. How can he forget when he wakes up screaming -- the skeletons in his closet banging their bony fists against the wooden door. How can he -- when he falls to his knees, tired and bloody from the continuous fight?
The heart of the once innocent boy had been replaced, torn from it's bone cage and thrown carelessly into a metal box, cold and damp from the tears of a young boy who knew no better and where it had once lay, clutched and beating with life, lay a blackened slab of flesh. It was broken, edges sharp and missing, cracks and chips along the surface and inside, too, and with each passing day he could feel another part of him chip away. Endless was the echo as another piece fell to the floor, his anguished cries a memory now.
Love, honour, peace and warmth had never been in the cards for the beast. He had been destined for the path of the tainted and the doomed, those who could not fly to the sun but had once dreamed of soaring -- and he had long since accepted it. Unconditional love had not been shown to the boy turned man, turned beast. He had known fear and he had known the disappointing, uncertain stares of a mothers gaze as she looked upon the son who scared her. He did not encourage the blossoming love of a mother, unable to be wavered. It had been him who had been pushed, cursed for his quiet nature and his preference to have his own company above that of a pushy, manipulative brother and a competitive sister who sought not for sibling competition but to completely alienate him.
He had not been looked upon with proud eyes and Tiberius, then Caden, had sought his escape.
He could not escape from life this time.
Here, he was an adult, tarnished and tainted with the throes of life and where did he stand? Upon broken rock with bloody features, torn skin and tired hands clasping the end of his axe as it stood upon it's red coloured head, the broken soil beneath it as if hell itself was starting to beckon him home.
Here, he was tired. He was exhausted and ransacked of everything that could have passed for hope. For dreams. Tiberius had briefly felt the touch of another that had not been discoloured by fury, a promise of battle or judgemental eyes cast upon him. He had felt it with Olive, how she looked upon him and saw more -- it made him wonder if her Gods truly existed for how else may she have the sight so many others were blind to? His lips dry, the beast licks them slowly as he wonders if he may ever feel the snow cold against him now or if he was forever a numb hunk of flesh, rooted to the world by shackles of a different kind with each different battle.
Briefly he had wondered if in Olive seeing him, he had been allowed a moment of clarity, of quietness -- he had relaxed, for the first time since perhaps his birth. It had been a taste of what he could have had, had he been a different version of himself.
He knew love, children, happiness -- none of it was in his path. He knew his place. He knew where he stood, his ways and thoughts were accepted only when they became beneficial to the ones that surrounded him. The blood on his paws was only acceptable now that the Empress had been struck by life in a way that had not been written in her books. That was fine, because it was how the world worked when one saw in black and white. Tiberius saw the world in different shades and knew things were not always as they seemed.
He would forever be on the outside.
He would remain, stoic, sturdy, dripping crimson and sweat and where he stood would be where he would eventually die; axe still in hand. ^^
He carried not a sword but an axe. His body draped in chain mail and cloth, a darkened hood covering his face as to conceal his profile from curious eyes. He did not wear shining armour with the seal of his Kingdom draped across his chest in vibrant cloth, nor did he have a sword at his hip. His face was not revealed from an iron helmet that was up to reveal his knightly features. Tiberius was not the Knight in Shining armour in your fairytales. He had never been destined for that path.
Instead he was destined for different, for more yet for less, too.
He was a Watcher. He was a Lurker. He was a Killer. He was Protection. He was the raging sound of war as fury ripped from your throat as you brandished your weapon from across the battlefield. He is Wrath. He is Fear. He is a childs broken heart. He is alone.
The beast could not forget. No matter how hard he tried, he could not forget the way he had been made to feel, he could not forget the ghosts that lingered behind every nook and cranny of the Tundra as if they had ever stepped paw there. He doesn't forget when he's asleep, for the little time he does manage to shut his eyes and slumber, broken and short as it is. He doesn't forget when he's awake. How can he forget when he wakes up screaming -- the skeletons in his closet banging their bony fists against the wooden door. How can he -- when he falls to his knees, tired and bloody from the continuous fight?
The heart of the once innocent boy had been replaced, torn from it's bone cage and thrown carelessly into a metal box, cold and damp from the tears of a young boy who knew no better and where it had once lay, clutched and beating with life, lay a blackened slab of flesh. It was broken, edges sharp and missing, cracks and chips along the surface and inside, too, and with each passing day he could feel another part of him chip away. Endless was the echo as another piece fell to the floor, his anguished cries a memory now.
Love, honour, peace and warmth had never been in the cards for the beast. He had been destined for the path of the tainted and the doomed, those who could not fly to the sun but had once dreamed of soaring -- and he had long since accepted it. Unconditional love had not been shown to the boy turned man, turned beast. He had known fear and he had known the disappointing, uncertain stares of a mothers gaze as she looked upon the son who scared her. He did not encourage the blossoming love of a mother, unable to be wavered. It had been him who had been pushed, cursed for his quiet nature and his preference to have his own company above that of a pushy, manipulative brother and a competitive sister who sought not for sibling competition but to completely alienate him.
He had not been looked upon with proud eyes and Tiberius, then Caden, had sought his escape.
He could not escape from life this time.
Here, he was an adult, tarnished and tainted with the throes of life and where did he stand? Upon broken rock with bloody features, torn skin and tired hands clasping the end of his axe as it stood upon it's red coloured head, the broken soil beneath it as if hell itself was starting to beckon him home.
Here, he was tired. He was exhausted and ransacked of everything that could have passed for hope. For dreams. Tiberius had briefly felt the touch of another that had not been discoloured by fury, a promise of battle or judgemental eyes cast upon him. He had felt it with Olive, how she looked upon him and saw more -- it made him wonder if her Gods truly existed for how else may she have the sight so many others were blind to? His lips dry, the beast licks them slowly as he wonders if he may ever feel the snow cold against him now or if he was forever a numb hunk of flesh, rooted to the world by shackles of a different kind with each different battle.
Briefly he had wondered if in Olive seeing him, he had been allowed a moment of clarity, of quietness -- he had relaxed, for the first time since perhaps his birth. It had been a taste of what he could have had, had he been a different version of himself.
He knew love, children, happiness -- none of it was in his path. He knew his place. He knew where he stood, his ways and thoughts were accepted only when they became beneficial to the ones that surrounded him. The blood on his paws was only acceptable now that the Empress had been struck by life in a way that had not been written in her books. That was fine, because it was how the world worked when one saw in black and white. Tiberius saw the world in different shades and knew things were not always as they seemed.
He would forever be on the outside.
He would remain, stoic, sturdy, dripping crimson and sweat and where he stood would be where he would eventually die; axe still in hand. ^^
the staff team luvs u
