AN: I've been working on this story for quite awhile (inspired by the challenge '50 Fairy Tale Themes' by Ani-chan found on Lunaescence), and it's just now that I've decided to work up the courage and post it here! Updates may be slow , but they definitely will happen. Enjoy!
Does anyone know if indenting paragraphs is possible, and if so, how? Thank you.
1.) Fairy
Setting: Year X784; Shirotsume Town; 12 year old Sting
Digging his heels into the ground, Sting steadies the wavering stance of his legs, his knees buckling under the pressure of bruises burning his skin and the heavy thrusts of air drowning his throat and the vestiges of his rationality urging him to stand down - though the volition of his will hastily neglects the impediments of his body and the fine press of fur against his ankles encourages him to stay strong. So he shifts closer to his small companion, fettering his breath as if the restraint of pressure fortifies the defenses of his body, and with a snapped grit of his teeth, he prepares his damaged stature for the assault of crested marines - despite the heavy lull pulling his arms to his sides and the flickering light of his remaining magic retreating within the confinements of his fingertips.
He is stronger than this, he repeats to himself, hoping the incantation carries the innate aptitude of revitalization. He is stronger than some dumb fish with wings.
But he cannot redeem the quavering iridescence cloaked inside the palm of his hand or disregard the heralding barrage of scratches and bites with a simple turn of his head and a flick of his wrist. Before his breath recovers from short vacillations, the shortness of air obfuscates his sentience grudgingly swiveling between consciousness and respite. Though his endeavor proves chivalrous, he cannot conjure the strength to focus his eyes upon his many adversaries or enforce the stamina undulating within his core. And he internally reprimands the part of him that displays such weakness to the public.
The coarse stratum of soil tempts him more than the advocating mewls of the maroon feline, and he envisions the mollifying touch of land against his back - though he should direct his eyes upon the source interrupting his fantasy. Even so, Sting would much rather feel dirt clinging to the fabrics of his clothes and pebbles melding with his mess of blond hair and wind pacifying his vast hysteria. He could practically savor the warm incandescence fluttering across his skin and scrutinize the dusts of glitter traversing the horde of winged piranhas.
Navy blue pupils widen, blinking with a pristine mien only a child of his age can achieve, and dart to the radiant silhouette emanating the brilliant, powdered glow. His legs finally give in, and he falls to the ground, Lector plopping down at his side - paws still grasping a jagged tree branch he titled as an artificial wooden blade. Sting's eyes remain locked on the figure's lithe gait and the spectral dust flitting about with each step advancing towards him. From the slender physique and brazen posture, he concludes that this entity is otherworldly - that the mystical spark and graceful maneuvers are utterly and absolutely surreal - and that this creature cannot possibly be human. Finalizing his accusation with a terse nod of his head, he tailors his lips to form words somehow coherent through convulsing breaths and an oscillating heartbeat.
"You're a fairy, aren't you?"
