#lionscrowncd

@lionscrowncd: [  FIRST  ]:    sender tells the receiver “i love you” for the first time.

𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 upon the horizon, bringing with it the promise of rain. A gentle sort against his skin for with Godfrey is his touch always a form of devotion. The quiet care showered towards a man who’d wavered for a time close to crumbling away even when flesh and body had been made whole once more. How strange it is to feel the breath of prayer against his skin when he was never meant to be the icon of faith, the vessel for godhood in which greater powers poured divinity into his being. Stranger still, when he knows Godfrey’s never been given to worship of any kind, mayhap a lingering trace of an old faith towards an ancient tree that no longer exists. But never so overt as it’d been with Radagon once upon a time, when the shine of the golden light was all that could fill his life with purpose.

Faith can be as easily shattered as a ring, ‘tis difficult to mouth words around prayer for a god that may as well have held the scourge that’d battered his flesh. But faith is a form of trust and by all rights should Radagon no longer trust when so many of his beliefs have been betrayed. It takes the slow and patient work of a resolute soul, of a man who presses reverent kisses against his skin, coaxing wordless breaths from him as large hands trace against his hip. His eyes flutter shut, seeing within his mind’s eye the stars of a distant creation that glimmer within reach, and between them the approaching truth that falls from the lips of the man who holds him close.

ㅤ‘𝐓𝐢𝐬  𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥  𝐧𝐨𝐭  𝐲𝐞𝐭  𝐝𝐚𝐰𝐧  𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧  𝐡𝐞  𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬,  pulled  abruptly  to  from  slumber  to  blink  into  the  night.  Moonlight  still  yet  spills  through  the  open  windows,  a  gentle  breeze  upon  his  skin.  Yet  something  has  forced  him  inexplicably  awake  when  there  is  naught  of concern.  Sleep  is  a  honeyed  liquid,  thick  and  sweet,  tempting  enough  that  he  finds  his  worry draining  away  quicker  than  his  exhaustion.

ㅤThen  he  hears  it,  ears  nigh  pricking  to  the  sound.  And  he’s  rising  in  a  rush  out  of  bed,  racing  barefoot  from  his  room,  from  the  stead  and  out  into  the chill  of  the  night.  The  ground  is  wet  ‘neath  him,  his  toes  ripping  into  the  grass  as  he  runs.  Into  the  woods,  where  branches  lash  against  his  body,  he  tears  through  the  brush  and  into  a  clearing —

@lionscrowncd: if thou wouldst ever feel too burdened to continue, rest assured i would carry thee for as long as it takes.

𝐒𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝, 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠. The marks unseen, yet he feels them driven deep into his heart. He’s forgotten what it’s like to be touched with such gentleness — not a single finger has pressed against his skin, but the oath is a tenderness that slips past his carefully constructed defenses. Godfrey would cradle his heart if he could, gather the vulnerable pieces of himself to safeguard. How careful he would be too, treasuring what Radagon has allowed him.  

He’d never asked for a protector, nor has he ever wanted one. For he has walked through his miserable life understanding that his greatest defender is but himself. Fashioned from dross, he’d forged what had been discarded into his own sword and his own shield. Thus would he bristle at the presumption.

If not for that sincerity. So warm, so radiant, he’s unable to maintain his gaze. The way Godfrey looks at him now is too much. He doesn’t understand where it comes from though he’d once thought he’d known. Some disbelieving part of himself that still refuses to accept that this gentleness is meant for him at all. That all of it is misplaced. Mayhap Godfrey still yearns for the wife he’d lost. Mayhap he’s been naught but a poor replacement for goddess long gone.

‘Tis unfair of him to think so. He knows to believe as such is to do a disservice to Godfrey. ‘Tis the vexing conundrum of a scholar who knows yet is still driven by irrational emotion. Radagon allows himself a wry smile, still quite unable to meet Godfrey’s gaze. “In re-enactment of the aftermath of our battle? ‘Tis quite the burden to bear, my lord. For all thy might, I’ve a doubt even thou couldst prevail against the impossible.”

@lionscrowncd: ㅤ i hate who i was before

ㅤ𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐭  𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬  𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥  𝐢𝐧  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫  𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤,  𝐚  𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝  𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝  left  forgotten  when  Radagon’s  gaze  drops  to  the  man  afore  him.  Even  when  seated  is  Godfrey  still  a  towering  beast,  grown  docile  whilst  his  hair  is  tended  to  with  a  serenity  about  him  that’s  rarely  glimpsed.  Oft  is  it  but  a  half-truth  when  well  he  knows  the  coiled  power  that  lies  beneath,  a  feral  creature  so  ready  to  strike  with  but  the  slightest  provocation.  It’d  seemed  the  same  now  as  it  did  all  times  prior,  Godfrey  easing  by  moments  into  repose,  eyes  closed  and  tension  flowing  from  him.  

ㅤThus  is  he  ambushed,  staring  at  his  companion  as  though  he  could  discern  the  nature  of  his  mind  through  sight  alone.  ‘Tis  different  now,  he  realizes  and  wonders  how  he’d  not  noticed.  The  sag  of  his  shoulders  as  though  burdened  by  the  weight  of  his  thoughts.  No  longer  does  he  espy  a  proud  and  noble  warrior,  but  a  man  defeated.  He  lets  go  of  the  braid,  so  much  of  his  work  unraveling  at  once,  but  his  arms  circle  around  Godfrey’s  great  torso,  his  chin  resting  upon  his  shoulder.  His  own  cold  body  warmed  by  the  touch  of  skin.  “What  thou  wert  was  a  man  forged  by  necessity  to  see  thy  beloved’s  dreams  to  fruition.  A  sacrifice  of  thyself  for  the  one  thou  didst  love.  How  fortunate  was  she  to  have  such  devotion.  Thou,  a  man  who  has  ever  sought  to  make  the  one  thou  loved  happy.  ‘Tis  not  a  source  of  shame  then,  but  proof  of  a  wonderful  and  faithful  husband.”

@lionscrowncd [  BATTLE  ]:     as they prepare to go on a dangerous mission, sender shares a final moment with the receiver, and tells them they love them, just as they head out to fight.

𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟, 𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭. ‘Twas not the name he was born with, but the name he has now. And it is his own. The singular definition of his self that he understands. When all else that is his is but on loan from her, when all else that he has some claim to is also shared with her, then must he find the borders between they two. He sees it at times, the singular thread that had been they that’d weaved through the ages ‘til that moment when they’d been split in twain and from that moment do these borders continue to widen. Yet not enough. Never enough when all that drips about him is ever tainted with the touch of Marika.

What can he be then but some growth excised from the greater body, left to fester on its own in the cold. The gold that he wears now are from her, the hammer that rests upon the table is as much his as it is hers. When he holds it, is the weight of it familiar, this weapon that is an extension of himself. The runes within come alight by his touch alone. With it will he exact divine judgement upon the battlefield, part god made mortal champion to a goddess now. This is all he is, he supposes, no more her weapon upon the snow.

There is movement from behind, Godfrey who shares his tent now finally stirred awake. Radagon bothers not to look, though well can he envision the glory of his companion’s body, having been welcome to it the night before. Cut from the divine and still Radagon aches in a way that is utterly mortal. Held tight against Godfrey, is it so easy to allow the borders of himself to unravel, lost to a brief moment beyond grace and gold and all things tied to fate and destiny. ‘Tis always fleeting, but with Godfrey can he believe it to be eternal.

A large hand comes to settle against the small of his back, so warm and comforting that Radagon finds himself easing back, allowing Godfrey to guide him back to the bed, where he’s pulled into the man’s embrace. He’s handled as though he weighs nothing at all, brought to straddle Godfrey’s lap and to feel the pleased rumble through his chest as Godfrey begins to work through his vast locks of crimson red. Fingers card through his unbound hair, the scarlet locks falling as a river of blood down his back. Radagon can ill comprehend why Godfrey seems to enjoy his hair so much when the color itself is blasphemy, but here is he now and Radagon is too content to do much in protest.

@lionscrowncd: ❛   we have no scar to show for happiness. we learn so little from peace.  ❜

𝐌𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 and mayhap their lack of such since the dawning of the Golden Order. For who is more fearful of their own demise than one that is meant to be eternal. Radagon still tastes the edge of Marika’s fear that cuts against his tongue as tangible and horrid as bile. Her fear should be his by extension though it is the nature of what they have become, the imperfect separation and union that has rendered both into diverging perspectives of such matters. Strange, how he can regard an end with only indifference when ever it’d been the weight that’d hung heavy from Marika, a noose and an anchor both. But ‘tis in death or its absence that an eternal being might find definition and he supposes therein lay their differences.

There are no scars ‘pon his body, no mortal instrument capable of piercing through his flesh. Though he’d walked this world for a time as a ruin of fractures no trace of his once damaged state remains. He is whole and he is perfect. Flesh and bone mended once more to drift in the nebulous borders of immortality.

Thus he turns to trace fingers along the solid form of the man who shares his bed now, glorious even when in repose, Radagon rests atop him and ‘tis in contemplation of Godfrey’s mortality that is his weight. Poems sing of scars as testament of survival, but he sees only the mark of death. His champion and warden, his shield battered upon the battlefield in protection of his charge. He presses a hand upon the fresh scars, still pink against the bronze of Godfrey’s skin. Would that he could do as the stories tell, kiss each and every wound away ‘til naught mars the body of his beloved.

His is the power that can destroy and create, his golden light that can mend flesh and pull life from the beyond. And all that burns within his body yet is he helpless against the unseen scars beneath the surface of his beloved. Grief is a scar, one that runs deep and ugly. There are no such similar lines he might trace upon Godfrey to learn his sorrow save for what he might glimpse in those golden eyes. ‘Tis those wounds, more than aught else, that he would mend. A god is he, and pitiful one is he.