disclaimer: i own nothing.
a/n: hurrdurr. and then tp dominates life.
a/n2: to the sea creature buddy who will most probably never read this anyway.
. . .
He counts three, seven, twelve.
Scars.
Some long, claw-like—thin and small—lines. Most of them.
Others—others like one right below his stomach with hovering pain, like ghosts haunting and picking on old wounds—blooms. Like a flower. Grotesque, dark webs stitched across (everlasting), contrasting heavily against his skin.
Lunatic.
It burned. Like hell fire, sun's inferno—beyond mere Earth's pitiable lava.
Tingling. That is all he feels now. Which is good, oh gods thank you good.
But again, ghosts come, stays and lingers. It does not go. Not really.
(But maybe, maybe with time—)
Sometimes it spares him, gives him mercy—groveling underneath while mockery chimes with their laughter please please please—but he is just a mere slave and he succumbs to torture when it comes.
Teeth sparks as he grits, unmovable jaw and bleeding tongue, he thinks of home. Cheery children, sincere adults, passionate adolescents like him.
Youth. Young.
Far too young, with hopes and dreams like stars, going off the edge of every cliff to reach the nearest one pinned to the sky of wispy clouds and glowing orbs.
He clenches his fists harder. No, not that but people.
Think amusement, mirth, farther to joy. Guffaws, chortles and chuckles reverberating, crimson cheeks, trembling limbs—picture perfect memory.
Drill it in. Don't forget.
Power—strength, he admits, comes from remembrance.
(Who's sake?)
He traces his gashes and cuts. Pale and cruel.
(Us all.)
. . .
Three, seven, twelve, sixteen, nineteen—
. . .
Crimson.
It is like paint across his chest.
Breathe, boy, breathe.
Master swordsman he is not. Talent pools, reaching his neck, but he cannot swim in it. Not much, not yet. He is just barely floating.
(Seventeen, chosen, must save world—)
Beasts, behemoths roar and collapse centuries old pillars, walls, floors.
He must look up, up and up—ignore the cursing of the female beside him—to see almost the top of its skull.
(Heroes are stupid. Why can't heroes be cowards too?)
Clutching his shield and sword of legend—close, tightly—he summons courage.
And in the end, when the monstrosity fall from its glory, he thanks himself for the present movement of his chest.
(He learns that gods often watches while he stands and defends.)
. . .
—twenty seven? Thirty four?
He lost count.
(Will it ever end?)
. . .
—end—
. . .
a/n3: is it just me or do i like writing bitter protags?