Lotor fae introspection.
o o o
I.
Born of silver and black, a
Prince of darkness with shining
cobalt eyes rears his head with
pride and smiles with glamour, the
idle blackness beneath his
fingers quivering from the
deep lull of his iron will.
When his feet traipse the earth once
night has fallen, his power
grows as the moon rises high.
Nightmares play to the song of
his laughter and children come
to the melody of his
breath.
Charming as the moonlight and
sensual as midnight and
curious as a child yet
knowing as the weathered and
playful as the feline but
stoic as a mountain face
and sharp as his own eye and
dark as the deepest black sky.
He has fought harder than the
purest of darkest breed,
learned more than even the most
educated in his time,
has bled for those lone shadows
which follow his careful steps
and heed his benevolent
words,
a true Prince in armor of
blight, a shaded blade in his
clawed grip dipped in dusken bane.
II.
Ill mannered the Prince was not.
Nor malintent did he have.
But in his veins was darkness,
ingrained in his soul was black.
He never thought it a curse
but a gift it could never
be
and he suffers from a doubt
rooted deep
that tells him he can never
sleep
so long as he remains the
Father's greatest true shame and
weak in the eyes of even
those he tames.
So as sole heir to the moon
and Prince made of pure silver
and King of all things nether,
the old, young fae cut his ties,
charmed those around him with his
lies,
and stayed only loyal to
those shadows who bowed to him.
III.
They return to his fingers,
they come to dance on his nose,
they whisper in his long ear
and slither about his toes.
Power of the black ink
is forever unbidden
to this young, old fae who thinks
too much and
who is embraced by the cold
and is made to understand
that none other will obey
his hand
and that he must have pride in
his dark, melancholy side
otherwise
he will bring his own demise.
So even though he despised
the dark and its cruel eyes, he
did apologize and turned
his back to the brighter skies.
His shoulder was colder still
to the deep silhouettes who
masoned his will
but the breathy murmur of
his favorite sullen song
let them all know that he knew
himself wrong
and the shadows bowed to him.
IV.
Yet never knowing why, he
comes here of all places, the
land not of the withered or
the livid or the faceless,
but the land of the free-willed
and fearless and courageous,
who live under the sun and
smile wide with toothy grins
and defy even the most
tempting of the seven sins.
This place he does not belong,
with good-natured people who
repel his deep, breathy song
sung by his onyx flute with
unparalleled skill, who still
rise every bright morning
with unladen dreams of nice,
beautiuful, shiny things.
He finds a Princess with an
unrivaled spirit within
this golden land of magic.
She is unwary of his
silver tongue, unscared of his
moonwhite fangs, unbothered by
his looming figure which is
pitch black against the world she
knows, she loves his cobalt eyes
and sings to his breathy song,
and she teaches him her magic
and that he still has more to
learn, old as he is in this
young, brawny form.
V.
They fall in love against all
odds.
He loves her and this bright world
without darkness and bearing
children robust.
He loves her and the many
promises they've made, knowing
in his heart they are meant.
He loves her and this pretty
life-giving magic at her
fingertips.
He loves her and he wants to
be like her.
But he wants what he cannot
have.
And one day, he loses the
love of his life to the dark,
to the nightmares he breeds and
the greed of his ambition
and the black of his spirit
and the silver of his tongue
which convinced even himself
that he could have that which he
desired.
VI.
Enraged, he fell like a black
shooting star, hungry for more
of that gold he had tasted
and that wine he had abused,
lofty and light and foreign,
a poison he had consumed
in his naievté and
unbidden to his dry tongue.
The Prince of black and silver,
born of fine ore and power,
son of both the moon and night,
creature of the darkest blight,
singer of melancholy,
with his deep, dark melody,
unable to control his
lust
for more than just love or trust,
banished himself to the
fathomless cavern of night
where he'd be far from others' sight
in his shameful, sad twilight.
VII.
He murmured to inkyness,
"Never again will I act on a whim,"
in a tone that was morose
and grim,
then he sat on his throne forged
from forlorn trims,
his stature becoming slight
and slim,
the light in his eyes turning dim,
the power he craved meeting
his fingertips, and feeling
betrayal from his kin, and
sitting alone, head fallen,
forever unaware that
while others had left,
the shadows still bowed to him.
o o o
A/N: I have no idea what that was. I just needed to ramble, I guess, exercise my poetry muscles which are WEAK. I hope it wasn't too bad! Let me know what yoi think!