UNLIKE MANY, SHE adores storms. they don’t scare her. in fact, she finds them quite fascinating. storms mean plenty of rain, which means plenty of water for the crops, which means a bountiful harvest. of course, there is always the possibility of too much rain, of when the ground becomes soaked beyond repair, where nothing can help salvage what remains of the fragile plants. she wishes she had the power to stop constant torrential downpours, but that isn’t within her scope. yet.
she’s preparing for bed when she suddenly feels as though she’s not alone. there is another presence, one she can’t quite place, especially as she is the only one who is supposed to be here. as far as she knows, anyway. part of her wonders if the storm’s overwhelming energy is making her sense things that aren’t truly there, but she shakes her head at the thought. she likes to think she has good intuition.
there is only one way to truly settle this. she strides towards the door and tugs it open, caring very little for the harsh rain and wind blowing into her abode.
𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒏 feathers that sit heavy on either side of his spine , jagged scar lingering just between them , a beautiful sort of pain in the only way that such markings can be beautiful ---- tragically . oh , the irony of it all . the boy king of death swallowing down everything his father forced upon him without so much as the lingering question of why , letting his father consume him time again with each rise and fall of the sun , now allowing his own velvet lifeline to trickle down his beloved wings and mix with the earth that his father swears he’s an abomination to .
vaguely familiar presence suddenly too close for comfort and glimmering wings disappear , masked in an invisible veil in the hopes that she ---- the shimmering girl with the silvery hair ---- won’t be able to sense what he is , what he’s done . words ring in his mind , an unwanted and unforgiving voice mixing with the rumble of thunder spilling across the overhead heavens . irises filled to the brim with gild rise to meet the countenance he’s been graced with . a gift from the gods who want him dead .
while wings remain hidden , stray feathers stay clenched in his hands , leaving the liquid kiss of death to blossom upon frostnipped fingers and scarred palms , smearing like the spread of a plague as fingertips come to touch the wall he’s made home against . ❛ are you divine ? ❜ tone drenched in venom , stark and chilling contrast to the seemingly honeyed words . not a gift from the gods , but perhaps a god herself ---- or , rather , goddess . he can’t tell . seemingly human , but , then again , so is he . the art of the macabre seems to follow him like a shadow , clinging to his heels and feeding off the glimmer of gold that falls from him otherwise . the shattered luck of the boy born from holy oil and hellfire . the broken chance of a crumbling half - blood god . ❛ i guess you’d be up there with them if you were . . . shouting , angry . ❜ angry at me , even if he’s not quite sure who they are , only knows what his father murmurs into his ears as he bleeds him dry .
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