for a rainy day,

ind. hisame.

[thornhail-blog]

@sureshot.

‘ Happy birthday, Kisaragi. ’   You’ll have to forgive him, for he’s…a novice, if you may, when it came to such traditions between friends. A pause ( a soft clearing of his throat, the slight fumble of his hands where the wrapped present was held --- he wasn’t sure what to give the prince, so he hoped this these gloves would suffice; Hisame’s no archer, but he did not have to be to know one must need protection from blistering arrows ), an exhale ( he was being too formal, wasn’t he? ), and, finally, a smile cracks in the midst of his lingering clumsiness, and he chuckles at himself. 

Offering the boxed gift, he tilts his head and says,   ‘ I hope you’ll allow me to stay by your side for the next ones to come. ’

[thornhail-blog]

natsukashiin said: like father like son

[thornhail-blog]

sureshot said: oh my god hisame you’re so gay

[thornhail-blog]

Today is a good day.

[thornhail-blog]

mains page is up!

[dvoyd]

i once knew a man he thought his heart was big enough for the world with his heart, he tried to lift it and with his arms, he tried to hold it(and lord, did he try.) i once knew a man but like all men, they never think they can die like all men, he never stopped doing what killed him and on his tombstone was written the saddest of words:(he tried.)

you are not Atlas; you cannot shoulder the world alone | m.a.w (via dvoyd)

[thornhail-blog]

finally tags

[thornhail-blog]

‘┊▸ sureshot.

      Tailing Hisame was a much harder task than he originally thought. When Uncle Hinata bragged about his son, it made Kisaragi curious to see the boy for himself– it was nice that he was recruited, too! Bubbling with excitement, he stayed energetic and walked at a leisurely pace. Although… for some reason, he felt that Hisame was quickening his pace. 

       “S-Slow down…” Kisaragi complained with a sigh. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he looked up to face Hisame with a bright smile on his face. “I thought I was the fast one here! Hmm, I guess I’m no match for you, aren’t I?” He joked, eyes alight with amusement as he playfully nudged the other boy. “You and Uncle Hinata are really strong, that’s for sure!”

       “Soooo, I guess we haven’t really talked to each other yet, huh? Let’s get along really well like our dads do!” To make his point, he rose his bow in the air, hoping that Hisame would get the idea and touch his blade to his own.

A look at Kisaragi and one would not believe the royal blood that ran through his veins; as it is, a look at Kisaragi and one would see little else but jest and humour and no room for court mannerisms and regal authority, and that is a contrast Hisame has trouble mending with. 

He really wishes, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that the prince would take the cues and know where Hisame stands in their relationship ( that he may be his father’s son, but he is not his father’s equal and the footsteps Hinata’s left behind are not Hisame’s to follow ), but he does not appear to notice them, and when the boy nudges his arm, Hisame decides it is time for clarification. 

He does not retrieve his blade, but he firmly stops his pace to face him. 

' My father’s level of familiarity is unfit for a retainer, ’   he declares, and the bite of his words is poorly concealed beneath his sharp tongue.   ‘ That casualness he displays is simply unprofessional and highly inappropriate. A retainer should address their Lord with utmost respect and keep suitable distance as to not impose. My father... he is much too friendly with Lord Takumi, hovers around him like a vandal and even --- even pats him on the back as if his Lord wasn’t his superior! It’s unbecoming, and I do not wish to mirror his improper behaviour. ’

[thornhail-blog]

" this is called 'hisame' – taste buds functional / resilience for pickling / a unique palate "

‘ It’d be ideal if you applied that wit for poetry into diligence for meetings. ’ 

[thornhail-blog]

‘┊▸ caeldum.

The atmosphere stills and everything stops. Her eyes widen painfully, slowly and realization settles on the pit of her thoughts, lungs dry and unable to breathe life. She had meant to chastise him over the wounds, now a topic forgotten and any resemblance of nagging scowling is long gone. Being self-conscious is fresh and disconcerting and it doesn’t take away the sudden turmoil of emotions fighting under her skin.

She opens her mouth and closes it, no doubt like a fish’s action, baffled beyond belief. Her throat is tight and inconveniently useless at helping her carry the conversation to normalcy. Then, out of nowhere, her vision is clouded and a burning hotness almost makes her hiss in new founded concern.

Oh. Is this what parents feel when their children call them that way? A smile lifts up, watery but truthful and her shoulders shake, up and down, trying to not let Hisame be worried. A sob gets out and her arms envelop the older boy’s frame, desperately doing her best to not let go.

Mother.

There’s a certain magic in the comfort shared through soft touches and the serenity they provide. He knows home best in the grip of a blade ( feels father best in the callouses on his hands and the scars on his fingers, remembers mother most in a diary worn with age and a quill dried of overuse ) and finds remedy in the warmth of Matoi’s being. Tenderness becomes a commodity in times of strife, but within the debris she rises more benevolent than ever and he wonders, idly, just how much heart a body can host before it bursts ( and he doubts, even then, that she’ll surrender hers so easily ). 

It is this he blames for his crass slip of the tongue, and, oh, colour him a fool for a woman so sublime! The strength of her convictions and the fire of her will sways him into a longing fit for a child so deprived --- he sees family in her smile and he is but a sentimental idiot, a laughingstock! 

He prepares an apology through thundering pulses and prays for her not to forgive but to forget, but his mortification is cut short and replaced by ( surely lethal ) shame the moment he feels her arms around him and... was that a cry he heard?

‘ I didn’t mean ---! ’   How laughable that he who could seldom speak calmly to a girl was currently being embraced by one, and he takes a moment to regret his existence and every choice he’s made.   ‘ Let me go ---! ’  Please.

[thornhail-blog]

❝With all due respect, pickles are as disappointin' are your hair.❞

‘ I doubt you’ll remain so humorous when your teeth rot black with sugar. ’ 

[thornhail-blog]

Listen, you don’t hear him going around and telling everyone their favourite food sucks.

[thornhail-blog]

sureshot, mistakingly, said: PICKLES SUCK!

‘ They do not! If you bothered to try them, you’ll surely find yourself floored by their delectable taste. ’

[thornhail-blog]

If you’d excuse him, he will be off tending to his much healthier food.

[thornhail-blog]

‘ Your hair --- ’  A pause, a bite of the tongue. Fingers resting atop seated lap jerk in momentary surprise, gaze up to see little else than disaster wearing human skin. And what a poor judgement he’s made at first blush, when her messy hair looked presentable in comparison to her amour as it loses inky shine under layers of dirt. He wonders, curtly, if the culprit behind her appearance was her hellhound mount.  ‘ Are you alright? ’

@boldapproach.

[thornhail-blog]

Were eternity his, time would surely tic slower for moments cherished within a yearning heart that his hands could not retain. He’s native of a land with days and nights that pass much too fast, much too dry, and he is windswept and worn, ever at the bay between a second and the next and cursed with the knowledge that there is little for him to do than simply let it be. 

‘ Thank you, mother. ’  Matoi’s touch is the warmth of a home denied and he minds not her fingers on his skin despite the prickling pain she seeks to soothe. He feels like, perhaps, time stills while she cares for his wounds and her brow creases in concern, and it is comfor---

...Mother?

‘ --- ! ’

@caeldum​.

[lifeinpoetry]

Memory / is another name for ghosts and their awful hunger.

Eugene Gloria, from “Apple,” My Favorite Warlord (via lifeinpoetry)