*I do not own jane and the Dragon or its characters
This is another piece which follows the story game. It was written for everyone in this little game which includes poshkat, lareepqg, Kyra4, and Solitaire44. To poshkat, I wish I knew how to tell you how wonderful your piece was, and to everyone who is in this game. It's nice to see everyone all fired up, and I hope this is a worthy Contribution. I used a line from Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson. So yeah, I own nothing except a foolish heart.
Fear is the distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid. The foreboding of rejection was like the coldness in his bones. Without the sun, without the flame or fire, he would freeze in his own tomb of ice. It was alright to be anxious, even surprised, apprehension could happen to anyone, but it was dangerous. She was a distraction, and he was not ready to surrender, but a truce of truth, he could manage.
To face one's fears, meant to have courage, this he lacked from time to time. Yet, as he stood, at such a late hour, he hoped he could muster it. On parchment, he wrote lovely verses, dulcet, soothing verses. There were words he could never say, but to write them, they flooded, they spilled, they greedily bled onto the parchment. Rhyme, they did not, at least not purposely.
Fingertips brushed the stones of her tower, stealing away his warmth. A weakness had developed in him within the months, even years. Somehow he could shoot arrows again, throw threats, spit sarcasm, bite back. Preventative measures had been taken. Shielded by anger, guarded by retort, protected by words, defended by retaliation.
Like before, they went back to the way they were, to the way they had always been, but it was not enough. She was winning, winning in the eyes of the people, advancing in his own eyes. No, it would never be like before. Stupid, stupid dress, a very exquisite, very vibrant dress, that made him stupid. Gaping at her like a fish out of water would solve nothing, and fix nothing.
If only he felt nothing, to be overtaken, ambushed by romantic notions was a plague of pleasure and pain. Foolish heart, foolish man was he, tricked by beauty, engulfed by she. How long could such burdens be bothered with? There were goals to accomplish, places to be seen. Time, only it could foresee.
The parchment slid easily under the door, and he ran like death were right behind him. Only the moon could know what he did. Only the moon would know how puny and insignificant he was to the Sun, the radiance in which he was blinded, the spark she ignited in his blood, the life which sprouted from her bright light; she made him live, and she could make him want to die. Fear no more the heat of the Sun, a darting fear—a pomp. All of it his confession, and there was no excuse, now he could try to be Gunther again.
Even the Sun could not know, for what does darkness do with the light? There was nothing to fear, but fear itself. What would he lose that had not been stolen already? What could be given, that she would call his? Long ago, he knew, a heart illumined, a heart which burned, could break, and could ashen.