destroy everything you touch - flint & beckett
dawn breaks in the empty recesses of his
mind; the world tilts precariously before him,
in time to the gentle stirring of a hand o'er
the painted globe by his side. the decks of
the barely-used home open up for him, pliant
and prepared as wood creaks softly beneath
new boots. he listens just as much to the
waves that crest the rocks below as he does
for the fleeting whisper of a man appearing
behind him; it does not come, not for many
an hour. and yet he sits. and he waits. the
railing presses against his front, salty-cold
under the grip of bare hands.
light leaks from far off, tinting the horizon
and offering a fresh gust of wind to the
palms that sway before festering wounds.
eternity beckons in far off places that he
cannot quite grasp, not yet. ------ but soon.
soon, it would tumble to the hand and lay
prostrate as was right.
right, wrong. it all blurred round the edges
when given enough time to cause hindrance.
an old ache builds there, between brow and
delicate fold of eyelash. never was he so
keen for an embrace so cold as to pucker
at wounds and cauterize with heat. he had
glimpsed the volcano, years and stretches
of endless waters past. had seen it and
poured lead into its core, shaped the flow
of molten rock, pushed with hurried embrace
and lascivious tongue. years of it lay before
him, the volcano and he; were it any other
being, the typical contempt would curl in the
depths of his belly, would ensnare the lord
and whisk him away into disinterested sighs.
it is well past the hour of slumber, of thick
blankets and silken sheets. the cold of the
morning draws at fragile white flesh, fingers
now taut in gripping each elbow. his gaze cuts
across the horizon, does not seem to register
the figure creeping up behind him. but he is
aware; always, eternal, that is his role in this
wretched war. let the scum of the sea call
them as they wish--- he was watching, always,
and that was enough. they would regret their
laughter, their freedom, their biting words. the
lord rarely forgave, and never did he forget.
❝ did you enjoy yourself? i am
sure they thought you an amusing
guest, at that gala of theirs. ❞
the question rips from cracked lips, tumbling
out and portrayed so that the true intent is
shown. he had not sent his hands into the
world merely to mingle at some noble's party.
indeed----- if he saw, it was flint who acted,
for him. and if that meant infiltrating and
retrieving stolen goods, well. flint could not
deny his master that. the pain blossoms
further, catching at loose edges and ensuring
the his words come out warbled and pained.
perhaps it was ironic, that his greatest enemy
had become the one man who would see him
laid low, weak and tired in the kindling light. he
pushes the thought away, dripping smile of
derision finding its way unto pallid lips.
❝ had not i told you that lady smith
enjoyed herself a hardy man of
ginger and steel? she does so tend
toward mustachioed men, if i recall. ❞
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