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@royalpike
INDEPENDENT & PRIVATE , henry sutton as ripped from the walking dead and lovingly reanimated by yours truly : north ! multiple universes available. please read rules before interacting & following, and take a peek at my multi if you didn't come from there!
still here! just don't owe anything atm as far as i am aware. catch me on my most active blog: wolf-out
[ 𝙿. ] ╱ incorrect quote generator … @royalpike
Maxwell Jenkins by Nick Morgulis
henry kissing carol's cheek, pass it on.
❛ ────hey, man, [ ... ] ❜ a snort in through the nose, and then you spit. the glob splatters red on cement.
❛ hm. nice shot. ❜
𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽.
THERE'S A DOG WHISTLE IN HIS HEAD, SHARP ! INSTINCT SQUEALS and his eyes pick up off the road ahead, and back over his shoulder towards the sound of the harsh crack of fist meeting bone. walkers were undead, slow, not the brightest— they didn't throw cheap shots. and yet this walker? THIS WALKER DID.
it's only as henry turns fully to face vi & her attacker, that he sees the seams of the mask around the man's eyes and mouth. IT'S THEN THAT EVERY HAIR ON THE NAPE OF HIS NECK RISES, and his pupils turn thin... thin as the edge of a blade.
they weren't supposed to be this close— not since the pikes in the field. the allied communities HAD DOUBLED, NO TRIPLED their defenses since then. yet here a whisperer stands, reaching for a knife that briefly glints in the bright moonlight, and which has henry reaching for THE GUN strapped to his left leg.
what follows is a quick succession of movements and instinctual reactions. henry grabs the gun from it's holster, clicks off the safety, lines up the muzzle with the whisperer's head, AND WITHOUT A SECOND OF HESITATION... he pulls that goddamned trigger.
the sound is resounding, ECHOING, and thundering through his head before he can properly process that he's just killed a man. it wasn't his first, but it wouldn't be his last either. this henry knew, just like every other kid before and after him knew too.
" vi? " the voice that comes out of his mouth sounds foreign even to his own ears. it's steady and resolute; like the words of a dignitary. of the prince he'd been crowed. and he knows in that moment that HE'S LET GO OF A PIECE OF HIMSELF— the shadow of a small boy shed, and let free.
this time he wouldn't run away. this time was different, and this time? he wasn't scared of what would come next.
holstering the gun after he's flicked the safety back into place, henry shifts the bo staff strapped to his back into his hands, prepared incase another whisperer should decide to emerge from the dark. he'd always been uncomfortable with a firearm— but he was learning to accept it. the bo staff, however? was an extension of his arm. IT FELT AS NATURAL AS BREATHING. " you're lucky i didn't shoot you by accident. mom's been helping me with my aim. "
ben had their father's (not ezekiel, bio dad) lighter, and when ben died that lighter went to henry. it's nothing special but a metal lighter, probably a zippo. but it's henry's and it's something of the family he used to have, that stays on his persons.
this is truly the blog i come to when i need to breathe and calm down, everyone in the twd fandom is so chill...
new url possibly?
stay as royalpike
pikeprince
royalwrath
north's snoop option
– 𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗠 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗘𝗘 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗗 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗣𝗧𝗦 !
"Don’t look back."
"I missed you."
"It’s too late."
"Please don’t go."
"You promised me."
"Who did this?"
"I forgive you."
"We were gods."
"Leave me alone."
"They found us."
"Trust me, please."
"I need help."
"Run. Don’t stop."
"It wasn’t me."
"I remember everything."
"Burn it all."
"Tell me why."
"You never called."
"It’s just rain."
"You owe me."
"She’s not breathing."
"Is that blood?"
"You were right."
"It ends now."
"We start over."
"Stay with me."
"Nothing feels real."
"I hate this."
"Do it now."
"They're watching us."
"Make it stop."
"It's not yours."
"I was waiting."
"He’s behind you."
"They’re all gone."
"Time is up."
"Bring them back."
"It’s our turn."
"This is wrong."
"Don’t let go."
"We are cursed."
"No one knows."
"You're not real."
"Don’t say it."
"I saw everything."
"Nothing ever changes."
"Call it off."
"What are you?"
"I found it."
"Let me in."
is it worth rewatching and continuing TWD to the end of its run?
i forgot how protective morgan is of henry, while also losing his shit at the same time. he really hit rick with the: "i have to protect henry from—" right after rick's OWN SON died....... like morgan, sheesh man, bad timing.
in future threads i will be referencing henry's bio-dad as his father/his father's name! AS EZEKIEL IS HENRY'S ONLY DAD!
idk how old henry was when the apoc started and im not mathing, so im just randomly gonna say he was three.
it always feels weird leading someone new around. their community has been just them for so long, the only new additions were babies at this point. but they found allies. he has to keep reminding himself of this as he gives a little tour of the zoo. something about this brings back memories of the old days when he'd be mopping up a mess while a tour guide pointed at the animal in its exhibit and gave the rundown with facts. now it is his turn, he supposes.
as a few adults continued with following his second-in-command, vinny stayed behind – couldn't help but to notice one of the youngest of their visitors lingered by the lynx cage. ❝ not as big as a tiger, ❞ he breaks the silence, motioning to the sleeping cat with his chin. ❝ this one wouldn't take on anything bigger than a rabbit. ❞ he's not usually one to approach and start up a conversation – but when it came to these animals, he could talk ears off. (he's usually like that, so long as he doesn't have to talk about himself.) ❝ you're king ezekiel's kid, aren't you? ❞
@royalpike : ♡'d for an original character.
henry had practically grown up alongside shiva. he'd been three when the world had ended— PROPERLY FUCKING ENDED— and he'd been no older than five when ezekiel had found him, his brother, and their dad. somewhere between three and five they had lost his mother, AND THEIR DAD NEVER QUITE RECOVERED FROM IT... that's what made it so easy for him to die and leave his boys behind. but ezekiel... he'd been there, right away to catch both children before they could collapse from the grief and weight of losing both parents. AND SO WAS SHIVA.
those were better days, HENRY SWEARS UPON IT. back when his brother was still alive and he was small enough to fit on the she-tiger's back. things were easier, when he was young. SIMPLER. he felt things so raw and new, and while things are still felt as if every nerve ending were exposed... he was familiar with things like loss and pain, WHERE HE HAD NOT BEEN BEFORE.
shiva ... she was a symbol of hope for the kingdom. a symbol that life goes on, just like this lynx. THEY WERE SURVIVORS JUST AS MUCH AS ANY HUMAN, if not more so. resilience spoke in their eyes, determination in their steps. they hadn't given up– shiva hadn't given up– and neither would henry.
" her name's shiva– the tiger. " henry speaks after the man has finished, glancing away FROM THE BIG CAT and finding him standing there, where all others had moved on and forward with the tour of the zoo. " and mine's henry. but yeah, EZEKIEL'S MY DAD. " he introduces, soft spoken– still thinking about the lynx and the tiger.
ok going back over 2 my multi for a while.
true in that awful way that only truth knows how to be, the kids voice hits him hard. a hammer swung low into already bruised ribs while the field shivers before them again at the edges of his sight like it's trying to pull him back under. daryl breathes in through his nose, slow. HOLDS IT. then lets it drag the ghosts back down where they belong as @royalpike's words sink right along with them. “ yea'. maybe. but she ain't god. ” daryl feels something in his chest twist. a regretful mechanism long - scarred but not yet broken. too sharp for sympathy and not quite useless enough for guilt …
THE LANGUAGE OF THE DAMAGED; a familiar, sickening recognition. primal, instinctual. it starts at the lonely cage of his ribs, migrating outward. a slow and tender bloom. blossoming and seeping out into every piece of scarred flesh like spilled ink as its fists push bruises just beneath the surface that promised to be visible hours later. “ not some prophet neither. she don't get t'pick who dies. ” he steps closer, boots whispering just barely over the dirt like they're afraid to disturb the dead, and wishes more than anything that it could truly be so simple. because henry looks just about ready to crack open, spilling everything he hasn't said yet. JUST AS HE WISHES HE COULDN'T FEEL IT: the way anger has a penchant for sitting under skin like a fever. the way grief claws up a throat like barbed wire wanting only to crawl out. it was a sensation daryl knew well, one he had carried a hundred times over.
MORE OFTEN THAN NOT, it had only served to make him angrier. one body bleeding into two until two became three, three into four — that kind of recklessness was a contagion. always so unforgivable in the end, so disastrous, so very COSTLY that none of them could afford to watch it spread anymore.
“ LISTEN, ” henry's hands curl tight, tighter, fists formed around something that isn't there anymore. daryl watches those trembling knuckles, watches the stiff chin, the skyward stare, and knows without a shred of doubt he's witnessing firsthand a boy trying to make himself into a man right in the middle of a hallowed out graveyard. “ you ain't dead … ” he thinks of all the times he should've died \ all the times he didn't \ all the times he hated himself for it— “ an' that ain't a mistake. ” he wonders if henry's searching for something. permission, maybe. or absolution. OR ANGER TO MATCH HIS OWN. but daryl can't give him any of those. there's nothing holy to be had in all this hurting. nothing sweet about the way they bleed. so all he has to offer is a truth all his own, ugly as it is: “ she was gonna do it whether or not you were there— SHE DID. just 'cause she wanted to. ”
blue eyes flick to the spots where tara, enid, and the others once stood in that final stillness, almost searching, almost waiting. and another breath becomes another ghost swallowed down. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. “ this ain't on you. ” don't carry it, don't carry it, don't carry it— “ they didn' die 'cause of you … an' you bein' here, alive, that ain't an insult to them. ” finally, fatally, daryl's voice drops into something weighted and real and unshakable. “ you can't let it be. ”
something in the kid is fragmented, disjointed, and having come undone like old thread from broken seams. he might have believed he had always been this way if not for the fact henry knows that he had once been sweet— able to remember the feeling like it was a dream... faraway, yet simultaniously just within reach.
carol barely got to know that sweet boy before he was gone, and henry supposes that boy had died with ben. with the killing of gavin, henry had sealed his own fate. he had crossed a line that you don't come back from— and though "prince henry" was kind, was generous ... he still wasn't that same boy. and right now? he didn't ever want to be again.
because that little kid lost, and lost again, and kept losing till he had nearly no one else to lose.
now he was an exposed nerve. raw and pulsing with pain, he can feel it in the tense way his jaw clenches, and his teeth grind together. there is a sharp line of muscle going down his throat, and it beats in time with his heart, blood like mercury burning his veins.
HE BUILT COFFINS TODAY, AND YET ALL THEY HAD TO PUT IN THEM WERE DECAPITATED HEADS!
" ... then what do i do with it? " henry questions, turning now so that his whole body faces the archer. " what do i do with everything— all these things i don't know how to name— what do i do with them? " was he supposed to ignore them? the grief, the rage, the boy dying to the man he was quickly becoming? henry had to put the blame somewhere, and he wasn't going to put it anywhere else except his own head, and alpha's.
he couldn't imagine putting that kind of burden on anyone else.
and he wouldn't.
thinking of tara and enid, his lips dip down into a slight frown. he waits for daryl to answer, but their faces haunt him in the mean time— dead, alive, dead again, alive once more, and finally undead. alpha left them to turn, left them as walkers to rot in the sun as they waited to be discovered by the very people that loved and cared for them.
how was henry supposed to deal with the emotions that sight evoked? he was seventeen... he should be in high school but instead he'd been ripped from his home at the age of three, put in the back of his mom's minivan, and hurried out of the city like millions of others.
