⌠❀. a stormborne blossom.⌡
╭
STARTER FOR @thefallenstorm
There is a rapid heartbeat; a steady thrumming beneath a too still sternum. From whence there was such life, he now only experiences the harsh reality of death — of darkness. But the brewing storm and the rising moon drive him forward, fingernails caked in mud until once stagnant lungs can inhale air; relief.
But only for a moment.
Once he manages to drag himself from the rushed grave his party had prepared for him, he is reaching for a tattered coat and pulling it on to protect him from the roaring winds. Above him, the sky is crepuscular . . . mayhaps the few hours before dawn –– and he is alone, empty.
Besides the orchestra of wind-driven howls and distant thunder, he can only hear the sound of his own sobs as they echo.
Too much. It is too much —
He is drowning . . .
drowning. . .
drowning . . . Torn through this Earth as all-too-familiar talons dig into his shoulders to drag him back into his grave. Lucien . . . This body is no longer his, though. It isn't –– shouldn't be but Mollymauk can hear him, feel him, right in the back of his mind; taunting.
A gasp; eyes open to early morning light. And immediately, crimson oculars search his surroundings for a particular entity; a barbarian as pale as the moon — a lightning-bound angel, a thunderborne warrior, The Stormlord's deadly flower.
His Yasha.
He is crawling now, tattered coat hanging loosely around a thin frame ( a twice-dead frame ) and when he reaches her, he collapses beside her. Horns rest beneath her chin as he inhales the smell of something once holy that had fallen; she smells of flowers. Typical.
❝Darling,❞ he begins to say but his voice dies after a moment. Waking her has always been a struggle.Being near her, however, is more than enough of the comfort that he so desperately needs. She is alive –– warm –– and she is home. Some platonic half of a twice murdered soul . . . the one part of him that still seems to be alive.