#fardistances

{ fardistances } They all came to him- those who were broken, those who had been to hell and back, little souls that were scarred for life. Those whose parents had been slaughtered in front of the eyes, who had to fight for survival, who had to go through sufferings no child should ever endure. They all were sent his way, those no other orphanage would take. Too difficult, lost cases- but Samson was a man who knew lost cases, who once has been one himself. Come to me, my broken and beaten children, from me you will not see the cruelty the world has shown.  “Your name is Alnis, is that right?” Samson estimated her to be around ten years old, maybe a year or two older than this. Elf-blooded, if he could tell right. The people who brought her here... stories of parents brutally slaughtered? Among other things they had told him of. Maybe they were true, maybe not, he was glad that it was not his decision, but one already made by those who had the greater organization in their hands. It has been decided that she should stay here, in Kirkwall, and he moved over to the table, pulled over a chair to sit. “I am Samson, I am in charge here,” he started. “Sit down, are you hungry? Thirsty?” Start out well, then explain the rules. They were necessary to keep everything within order- good that he already had reigned in monstrous abominations no unruly child could keep up with. One of the reasons why he ended up with the most difficult of them, those who have been through the worst. 

[Caption: could you just make sure steph [fardistances, among many other blogs] gets to see this? she is so sweet, and i’ve really loved seeing her characters and blogs grow.]

     Unraveling the truth was difficult, the meat of what had carved him into this unruly being had a bit of rot to it. There was no grand unveiling, no moment of truth or brilliant surge of understanding and h o p e. The story he had spoken of ended in fire and pain, in an anguish that haunted his bones and left all smiles that curved his lips with a lingering hint of bitterness to them. Old wounds took a while to heal, and reopening them made it at least a bit easier time after time. The elf was not happy about divulging the information–how could he ever be happy about it?–but he did nonetheless. His tongue ran over the wall of his teeth, his jaw set in a vexed stance as he tried to seek some answers in the dirt between he and the blonde seated across from him.                    “In my dreams—”the ones that haunted him, that left him sleeping lightly and acutely aware of each noise or movement, the ones that had him wake in a paralyzed panic, mind and heart racing while his body refused to respond. those dreams.                    “—I kill him every night.”     It was never enough, it plagued him, ate at his core and carved it’s tally marks into the bones of his ribs. This was a ribbon of violence he could never unknot, this was his vice and downfall, and it would always be so. He could not glean any satisfaction from the death he did give him, because it was not enough.                    “A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves.”

     How wretched a thing it was to feel at all. He grimaced, eyes downcast and fists balled. The sharp curves of his fingernails bit crescent shapes into his palms. How wretched indeed. He knew all too well how it was not to feel, to have the passion beat out of every inch of your flesh, to have head bowed and sensation numbed. Dhruastun had lived in that hell, and he did not prefer it at all, not one bit. The elf would prefer to feel, to feel it all, everything in terribly cruel detail than to be lacking once again. That was his burden, to feel too much than to not feel anything.                    “It’s better not to, sometimes.” His brow furrowed, the tell-tale sign of conflict evident in that crease. “Because once you do it won’t stop. It won’t ever stop. You’ll feel everything, you’ll be condemned with each joy, each downfall, every fucking thing.”     A bitterness seeded in his words before he looked back to the blonde, and some attempt was made to ease some of that sting from his features.                     “You will. When it comes it’ll overwhelm, but you will.                       Not all numbness lasts forever.”

hi steph, I LOVE THIS TOO OH MY GOD. i want to just learn about all fish everywhere bc wow wtf they are actually super neat. i think that would be great if you could get a huge tank !!! (or at least a fish to start with omg)

Anticipation is a stomach-ache. It's worry and thrill mixing into a concoction that's so very bitter. It's knowing that the blow will strike, but not where--and if you do know where, it's knowing that it's coming but not when. It's holding yourself tense waiting for it to land, and it's even worse than the strike itself. The waiting is what hurts more. It's gravel on the edges of your mind, it's sandpaper running across raw skin and not being able to get a full breath. It's the fear that when you do breathe it's too loud, too evident, too present, as if it detracts from what is to come.Anticipation is the chorus of high wailing strings, overlapping and growing into a whine. It's the burn of not breathing for fear of tripping up what's ahead. It's chorused in by false smiles that don't quite reach eyes, with routine motions that are overlooked and taken for granted. Anticipation is the itch in your palms when you know what to do, when patience and resolve wore thin enough to snap some time ago and now all there is is the wait before you make your action. It's knowing you're going to burn, and you're taking down all you can with you. It's taking note of the surroundings and knowing you will damn it all with you. Anticipation is the satisfaction of knowing you're going out like a damned bomb, and you're taking down all of those demons with you. It's knowing that you're the one making the blow, knowing how it will land, and knowing what it will do.                              it sits and consumes                              it hollows out what it can                              and fills it with tension                              it's pulling tight until breaking                              right before it all s n a p sAnticipation is right before you break, where excitement couples with dread. It's even that clear-headed sensation the moment before, when all the pieces fall into place and everything fits. Anticipation is horrible, it is wonderful. It's nothing you want and everything you crave. It will drive you mad and you will love it. Anticipation is the wait you hate and cherish all at once, it will eat you away from the inside and you will smile.

A sensation of being alert surged through his figure the moment it became clear he wasn't alone in his bed. His vision was still blurry when his eyelids snapped open and he turned to see what the disturbance was. Before he fully registered that curtain of blonde did some ease already filter into his bones, comfort making his tense muscles slack and bringing a drowsy smile to his lips. He was not often perturbed by visitors to his bed, he did like sleeping with warm bodies nearby--it made him feel less alone, but that initial hike of awareness was something he was still trying to get over.He didn't hesitate in twisting onto his side, reaching out with both hands and finding that familiar rogue to drag down into his nest of tangled sheets and pillows. If Alnis was crawling into his bed at whatever hour this was, he wasn't going to question it, he was going to welcome it, and pull the woman into a net of safety and protection--which included an arm circling around her waist and a swift peck delivered to her forehead. Already there was a sluggishness in his bones, no threat detected and no worry to fret over as his lingering lips pressed a smile into Alnis.               "You're lucky I didn't set you on fire."It hadn't happened yet, but he wouldn't rule out the chance of it happening. If spooked he would lash out in such a manner--this, though? Dhruastun realized that either the rogue had a long night, a situation she needed to escape from, or perhaps some familiarity to sink into to ease rightfully into sleep. It could have even been a combination of all three for all that Dhruastun knew. The apostate would offer some peace, the comfort of someone who could guide them into slumber and keep them protected, the safety line of his arm snaked around her and chin above the crown of her head something to find some comfort in. Let his chest be a pillow, his pulse the sound to ease whatever bothers could plague her, he had no issues with it. When he spoke again it was a soft murmur, the sound of it rumbling more in his chest than actually coming to fruition on his lips.               "Sleep. I'm here, you can sleep."