theo. (escutcheon) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-07-21 20:29:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, !narrative, theodore finch |
Who: Theodore Finch
What: Portents. (Narrative)
Where: Finch Estate.
When: Backdated to Friday.
Rating: PG? Some vague mentions of blood/death.
Status: Complete.
The ancient, crumbling floor of the Tower now stains with blood, but the man standing at Their side this day, he who proves himself both Comrade and Friend, does not cry for his loss. Not for his father, this would-be God denied his Throne. Or perhaps Their sight is remiss, for the Mist here is at its thickest, filling the room with a brilliant golden light, pouring endless through every window and open crevice. They turn their gaze forward to the altar, where Their hard-won prize awaits for the claiming. The Sword of Conquerors remains poised in blood-slick grip before Them, carving a path for the others to follow. The roiling, endless waves of Mist continue to howl in Their ears, the light ahead burning aside all else. Theodore awoke slowly, half-stuck in the tangle of sheets he somehow managed to thrash down to his legs during the night. He brought a hand up and wiped the sweat from his brow, dismissing the lingering remnants of his latest dream--puzzling madness and nothing more, he thought to himself, a mantra that failed to soothe nor convince of late, his mind struggling back to the confines of reality and the tenuous grip of the physical world. He gazed in silence across the wide, cold expanse of his chambers, collecting the familiar details of the room one by one. Daylight filtered from the nearest window, indicating the early morning hour. When Theo reached out his hand toward it, he felt the sunlight against his skin, warm and comforting. His hands were not stained by blood, he noted, not from the foes of the day previous nor the false god imagined in his dreams. They were clean and carefully healed and did not so much as quaver in his vision. He rose wearily from bed and tangled sheets, ringing the bell for the servant as a cursory thought. There was no use lingering in his chamber through the day, after all, least of all to be further haunted by whatever murky portents awaited him. Darius had seen to his wounds and healed the worst of them, and there was little left now but a deep hollowness and an exhaustion that sank down to the bones. His body felt sluggish and heavy as he crossed the room, pulling on a pair of trousers lying on the floor haphazardly and wandering over to the window. Slightly ajar, the warm breeze slipped in and brushed against his skin, the sunlight bathing across his slumped and tired form. Theodore leaned his forehead against the glass and looked out toward the city. He could not see clearly beyond much of the Nobles District, nor so far out as the sea. The only structure great enough to draw his sight was the Mages Tower, rising high above the rest of the city. Mind dulled by ill portents and exhaustion, his gaze lingered there, searching blindly. |