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and in his heart, fear beckons
Even mountains fear the rending of the earth and the ripping out of their stony roots. What more the generals? (After all, they're only human, too).
I. [Cross Marian]
There is no light left; the sepulchral candles are dead (like the wax puppets they really are) and only his gold buttons twinkle in the dark morning, like the fading moon wilting above the fell fens, like a red eye peeking out of slinking darkness.
The world is decaying tonight, and the dells are steaming over with misty fright.
There is nothing around but a fine-stemmed glass, and his head is heavy and his eyes ache with the weight of tears unshed. Fake petals are but fake petals, and bright red smudges on his cold cheeks fail to warm his heart of hearts. Maria, oh Maria!
When the sun rises, he will chase the river and hunt for the end of all time. For a woman, the only one he has ever loved, whose soul he has imprisoned far from Eden.
But for now, he sits and counts the ticking silent seconds, and the world goes wheeling round and round, and in his heart, fear beckons.
II. [Klaud Nine]
She steps lightly through the grass, breathing air and secrets, and kissing the stars with scarred fingers. It is night, and the correct time to mourn.
Breathe in, breathe out.
And then she will wailweepcrypraysleep, all the way till she is sundered from grief and all things sad. She has trudged through countless tragedies, which have fallen like the darkening years, but still she lives, and live she will still do.
It will all come to an end one day. When, she doesn't know, perhaps, will never know, but for now, she thinks she can lean back into the soft flowing grass and close her eyes. There she will lie and sleep, for a while, in peace while evil unchartered wheels past on the wings of the wind.
The tiny tears at the edge of the horizon shimmer, blinking back into the dark tapestry above, and in her heart, fear glimmers.
III. [Froi Tiedoll]
With a brush he captures the little lily dancing down the torpid stream, inching its way through brackish water that probably tastes of salt. That tastes of unnumbered tears flowing freely from the deepest wells of sorrow.
In grief his brush flies, and in it it will wither.
There was a spring in his step, once, but now, only shadows cling to his harried soles. The wind hurtles around him, and he knows it is time to move on. He cannot tarry too long here now; he has Duties to attend to, and two apprentices waiting for him, and he has to help them bear their silent, masked grief.
He has paid homage long enough, and tears unnumbered he has bequeathed to little Daiysa.
He rises. He scatters the ashes of the painting of Daisya's hometown into the howling winds; like terrible claws they go swirling, twirling, and in his heart, sorrow spins.
IV. [Winters Sokaro]
Like a prisoner he glances out, and smooth metal, cold like the hand of decay, strokes his scarred face.
It is cold, the wind, and it is cold, the icy tears that enclose his hidden bittertwisted heart.
The story is long and the days are darkening, with spectres lingering beyond every corner. Each step he takes echoes with a thousand laments, and shrill cries are heard, stained with blood and misery. And he, he is tired and disgusted.
Humans are such fools. Why weep for the fallen? He sees Klaud Nine cry, and chastises her with the wisdom of decades.
Fool, fool.
The world is spinning to an end; the days are shortening and the nights are lengthening, and the air smells rancid with death and decay, and he knows and hides his misery, and in his heart, the tales of yesteryear are festering.
V. [Kevin Yeegar]
Once upon a time, he was a teacher. Once upon a time, he failed to save his charges.
He's stranded in deep water, and the wind bites his aged skin. There is music in his ears: daunting music, just a single strand of it, but it lingers. It is sad, and infinitely eerie, bursting with destruction and merciless in its tirade.
There's a burning pain in his limbs, and the memories strike again, glowing into his soul with bright-red eyes.
He could once build mountains, and he could once shift oceans, but now, he is rendered utterly useless. Bound, unbound, fettered, unfettered, torn between the nuances of dreams and the perception of reality.
There's a cold wind nipping around his ankles, and a pained voice by his side. He only knows that his lips are moving, and not of his own accord. The voice is slithering, it seems, further and further away, slitherwitherbitter, and in his heart, he withers.
A/N: I'm back! For a short while only, though. I've missed writing a whole lot over the past few months! My prelims are now over and that's great. They were ridiculously hard, though :S Bah.
Anyway, it's a shame that the generals are not mentioned more often! They're sidelined all too often, and when they're mentioned, it's usually Cross who gets the most attention (not hard to see why though). I was going for individual drabbles, but I guess I'm too naggy and not sufficiently concise D:
Alright enough talking heh thanks for reading, and if you'd care to leave a review I'd be most appreciative.