bro same

Light is not predictable. Within each ray hold a million million particles, iotas of dust to shine and dance and gleam, to create the sunlight that dappled upon warm skin. They beat and collide, mimicking the comets and planets in their own way, causing supernovas and eddying holes no bigger than the heartbeat of a gnat. 

Yet these still have a pull, as black holes are want to devour light, so too did this minute whorls and spirals. A river they made, turbulent as the pressures of the cosmos pressed tight against the walls, slow once more as the crepuscular beam fanned it's finger wide. All with a boat at mercy to each movement, a soul a ship riding the photons with a calm practise of a well-able seaman. 

A god of light held no fear of that he owned possession over. Each part, each speck was his to steer and see clear. Much as truth came easily to his treacle tongue, honesty extending a little more grace in godhood than simply bound to tell no lie, so too was light the very core of Baldr as he drenched himself in it. Flesh of gold, the reflected core of the several billions of suns, it was star-flame that fuelled his lungs to work onwards like bellows, to coax his blood to run and heart to beat. 

But light is not predictable. And it would be little fun if a mishap did not happen every so often. 

Much as a weir, a crook in the stream where the waters nodded fair well and parted ways, it was a decision quickly made to simply drift, to wait until they landed on the shoreline of some other island or planet that had not been known before. So luck came to pass that the Aesir and his hosts came to the lands founded deep between giant tree root and softly-smelling mulch. 

     “A dragon does not need all of its legs to pose a threat. I do not recall anyone ever running in fear of a dragon’s legs. Dragon fire, on the other hand, I have seen many people run from.”

     Thranduil was seething now. That much was obvious. He had his own bias, and his own experiences that helped form that bias, and he was entirely unwilling to change because it was a young dragon or because his father was raising it.

     “How can you say that? They were made by Morgoth to be killers. That is what they do.” As he spoke, he was torn between moving away from Oropher and holding his ground. After a moment of consideration, he remained seated. “Will you keep it under your collar when it is larger than a horse? You cannot guarantee you will keep it from my Halls when it is too old to keep under your control. They have minds of their own, and those minds cannot be tamed, nor can the urge to hoard and kill that fill those minds be quenched.”

     In somewhat relaxed silence, Thranduil listened to his father. Until the word ‘hatchling’ was mentioned; from that point on, he knew his father was right about how he would react. With every word leading up to the last one, Thranduil grew more tense.

               Then he said it: ‘Dragon.’

     In fact, he was more than angry. He felt something else too. Perhaps it was dread, or even something akin to betrayal, but he could not quite place the feeling. Regardless, it made him sick, and that was the only reason he didn’t advance upon his father as he had suspected he would.

Send me “&” for my muses reaction to yours tracing one of their scars.

     “Father—” Thranduil tensed when he felt Oropher’s touch along the scar. His voice was taut; a precedent to the impending snap. The breaking point was being approached, but he it was not his father’s intent to push him there.