( magnanimous heart )
an angsty drabble for @pantheon-the-poet
everything has to turn black into ashes, eventually. this is the moment chained to her mind to the impression of frivolity; nothing but an insipid event. at this moment, Leona would rather be somewhere else – home, demacia, anywhere but here. leona wakes up to the rough scratch of rocky concrete against her cheek and the damp, earthy smell of drizzling rain pouring against her nose. cold and weary, it’s the kind of rain that has been assaulting mount targon for days and weeks. it hasn’t rained like this in a long time.
the ground feels wet and cold underneath her fingertips. rain drops sprinkle onto the side of her face. her cheek feels raw and tender; her bones ache. when she finally pushes herself up into a sitting position, the ground is matted with crimson spots and smears, creating a pattern that didn’t quite look like rain.
they seem to match the long, bloodied wounds on her hand. though she hisses when the rain hits her awakened body, hinting at other injuries ornamenting her open skin. she can still hear the thudding of her pounding heart in her eardrums, cutting through the thickened silence fallen over the village. a wave of adrenaline washes over her, giving her the final push to enable herself to stand tall – her lips are pulled into a pained scowl, yet the bodies of decimated enemies and comrades fall upon her vision and cause what was once her heart to sink into the pit of her stomach. war was something she despised, underneath the layers of her warriorisms – peace and tranquility always fell upon her dreams, yet she could never escape from the disparity of battle. it was then that her eyes traced the outline of the crimson plume, one that was now rugged and torn, resting lackadaisically on the ground. it lacked its glory when not adorned by the great warrior that was its owner; a few limped steps, a reach of a bare hand - her grasp around it is gentle, yet firm - just enough to keep it within her grasps, yet treated it as if a helmet of glass. for that was certainly the material of her heart, as her eyes looked around the battlements and war-torn town – no soul was to be seen, and the smell of death rung true enough to dull her senses. ( a crack dawns at the center of her heart, one that the sun cannot heal–fear ruptures at her veins. )
