arcann
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NOW I’M THE VILLAIN IN YOUR HISTORY
( I was too young and blind to see
I should’ve known
I should’ve known)
PLEASE NOTE: THIS BLOG WILL CONTAIN NSFW, 18+ CONTENT RANGING FROM VIOLENCE, GORE, DEATH, ABUSE AND MURDER AMONG MANY OTHER TRIGGERING TOPICS. IT IS IMPORTANT YOU KNOW THIS IN ADVANCE BEFORE INTERACTING, FOR YOUR OWN SAKE.
prompt from @lxstjedi; arcann’s first birthday after thexan is killed
The first image he sees is that of hands, grasping so tightly && so fiercely.
They claw nails into soft flesh, touch bone until it creaks, and yet it remains not enough
to save the slowly fading life he holds. His brother ( FRIEND. LOVER. ANCHOR. ) lies
dead within his grasp && a scream is at his throat, tears he has kept at bay ready to
overwhelm, overflow. He holds on tightly to the black to his white, the calm to his storm,
the other side of his doomed existence, but he sinks to the embrace of death && he is
alone, cold, broken. The body of his other half ( his source of STRENGTH ) lay limp at
his knees, the sight too much for his flaking soul, breaking heart.
( the scream that passes his lips is the cry of a name so
long forgotten, now etched into a memorial feet from the
fountain they had both visited frequently. it echoes across
the space, walls curving inwards as the bellow reflects &&
grows. it is a glimpse of the sorrow, the hatred, buried with
the other, words unable to describe the empty bond waiting
each && every day. it is the scream of a wounded animal,
one who has lost its owner, its lover. it is the scream of a
lost man, drowning in his own regrets. )
It is the scream that awakes him, the air dark with the promise of night. The
knights hound at his door, a worried ‘ PRINCE‘ resounding from their lips. They worry
for him, for their only remaining heir. But they do not know the truth, do not know how
his hands are forever stained with the blood of his one && only. The day has not yet
begun, yet throat is already raw with the damage he has inflicted upon himself. It is
only fitting, he thinks, to be subjugated to such pain each and every day. Night && day
are both the same; he is plagued by the ghost of his other, his brighter ( SOUL) half.
No matter what time the chrono says, he is never given peace. He is constantly at war
within, and the respite sleep used to have has only morphed to a hell of its own design.
He continues to lie still, body surprisingly unmoving even as sheets remain
disarrayed. He does not call to the knights, does not even glance towards the door he &&
Thexan had once shared. He is numb, cold. This day, even as moon shines brightly across
his window, remains cold when it had been full of so much warmth a year prior.
( a missing body, a missing soul. )
It is like a snap within him, anger taking control as eyes burn, fire && rage taking
precedent over that of blue && sea. It destroys all that he is; replaces him with the beast
that had taken and taken and still remains unsatisfied. Saber is drawn, sheets discarded
as weapon hums to life, the yellow reflecting across his robes. He pays the brightness no
mind, stalking towards the door in a fury of hurried steps, blade pushed through the closed
door && quickly being swept to the right, dragging across the torsos of the knights awaiting
him outside. He hears their forms drop to the floor, hears their armour clang as he once again
takes what is not his. Eyes drain of orange, the blue being revived as he studies what he had
done. He does not fall, does not scream as he had done moments ago. Instead, saber is
brought to his face, eyes closing as the hum fuels him, calms him. A teaching father had
given to him a month after the passing.
Eyes open, saber being deactivated as human hand refastens it upon belt. Feet take
steady steps, even steps, towards his ( HORRIFYING ) mask. Hands deftly fasten it upon his
face, hiding the scars of the past && his failure to be the ‘ PERFECT SON‘. Breathing turns
mechanic, the sound inhuman as he activates the door, the mechanism still working even as
it sparks and whirls in protest. He steps over the dead bodies at the threshold, eyes forced to
stay forwards as he continues his way towards his no doubt waiting father. They both know
what this day is, what this emptiness at his side is doing to him. It’s time to learn. To control.
That is what this day is now. It is not a thing of warmth or playful smiles, not of sly smirks &&
wondering eyes. It is not the day of fond touch, hungry lips, and whispered prayers. It is the
day he learns to control the flares within himself; the day he repents for his sins.
But Valkorion, father, lies lengths away, seated upon throne as if a god among
men. He looks on with distaste, his own eyes blazing. No words are shared as Arcann
descends to knee, head bowing in submission as he awaits anything, everything. He
awaits instructions, awaits to be told today’s lesson. Moments tick by without so much
of a breath given, at least not from him, and the nervousness grows, breathing picking up
without his notice. Durasteel clenches upon his bent knee, shaking as machine begins to
tighten relentlessly. Pain flares && grounds him, barely, but it is only temporary. This is
his punishment for his weakness this morning ( the SCREAM), for his past mistakes
( thexan’s DEATH), for the anger he cannot control ( the KNIGHTS ). For everything. He will
never be enough. Not without his other half. Not without the light to his darkness.
Another scream is ripped from his throat, the sound distorted through his mask as
he crashes against himself. Fingers of inhuman strength break bone as grip becomes fierce,
his cry mingled to that of his outrage. Flesh balls to a fist as voice slowly fades, eyes alike to
the ( not so ) father before him.
One word is given.
( ‘ ENOUGH ‘)
And he is silenced once more.
