“All in all, you truly don’t mean anything to the rest of the world. I’m the only one who truly cares for you. Not the symbol you bear, but you” the antagonist cooes, cupping the protagonists cheek.
(Tagged with dark, creepy, possessive character. And just kinda sad and scary)
Jason doesn’t remember what he looks like. The days pass by in long smears of darkness, of words grating up his throat, of his hands clenched too tightly around his sword, of lights going out and out and out. Mirrors don’t reflect his russet skin, his buzzed hair, his strong nose, his full lips. Instead they yawn in front of him, eternities of endless space with no stars and no trace of his brown eyes.
He watches the world like sand passing through his fingers and wonders why they think he can save anyone. Because he’s a prince? The prince? Because his father never wanted him on the throne–and yet here he is? Or maybe it’s because of that damned prophecy Gilbert, the court sorcerer, once whispered over his head as a baby.
The people have always loved Gilbert. Immortal and timeless Gilbert who’s been a constant leader in their lives, their parents’ lives, their grandparents’ lives.
How much more blood would stain Jason’s hands if they knew? The Sorcerer’s Council–the highest magical body in the land– is only their ally because they think Jason has Gilbert’s full support. They provide aid to the parts of the country Jason’s limited army can’t reach, they hold the borders against the monsters and the hungry thrones beyond the sea, they do what Jason can’t since his father fucked off with nearly the entire army to fight a useless war for land.
Jason breathes deeply through his nose, eyes fluttering shut, as he tries to push the black feelings down and down and down.
His father may still be King, but Jason is the one who sits on the throne in his absence. And he’s got work to do.
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“The people are calling for a coup,” Gilbert says from the shadows of Jason’s office. Jason doesn’t even look up from his reports, though he’s no longer reading them. The letters had started swimming hours ago and it’s only been through sheer force of will that Jason has even attempted to make sense of the pages in front of him. “They want you to be King.”
“You know why I can’t do that,” Jason says. He signs off on a diplomatic meeting between his country and their neighbors to the south and then looks up, leaning back in his chair. “Father would just turn around and kill us all. He’s got control of the army. I thought you were staying out of this.”
Gilbert’s long, black hair slides across his shoulders as he leans forward to tap Jason’s finished paperwork. “I’m staying out of this.” A small smile flashes across his face. “Well, until you ask that is.”
When he was younger, Jason hated Gilbert. Hated how it was his prophecy that led Jason to growing up in a tower, in exile, all alone.
“There’s no fucking point to continuing on, okay? But I’m going anyway. I made up my mind a long time ago, that’d it be worth it to die for this cause.”
“That’s easy enough to say hale and healthy, but what about when the blades to your neck?
Kavi slams her hands into the table, ignoring the way the rough grain tears at the blisters on her hands. They’re already torn, already blood smeared and dripping. At least, with this, she knows its her blood. “I’m so fucking tired of people like you.”
Everest stiffens in his seat, drawing his hands away from the map between them as if burned. “People like me?”
“People who think that the only cost to pay is at the end of the day!” She feels every aching muscle in her back, can feel her wings dropping against the cold, cold floor with exhaustion. Her eyes still burn. “The prophecy foretold a final battle, a final show down, so that means all of our sins will be burned that day, right?”
“The way it’s gone there won’t be a final battle!” Everest stands, yanking on the bottom of his vest to right it. He seems distinctly ruffled by her outburst and steps back around his chair to put it between them as well as the table. “The dark forces have already entered the world–”
“And I’ve fought them,” Kavi barks. She wants to throw the table, but doesn’t. She’s got that much human in her still, that much restraint. “Every step of the way, I’ve fought. The blade has been at my neck since day one, Everest. I’m tired of people like you pretending that it hasn’t been.”
Garnet is a running stone. Feet pounding on wet concrete, laces tied too tightly, soles worn down to slick rubber but, still, never slipping.
He knows it can be a healing stone, a purifying, stone, but has never felt the sort of peace howlite or quartz (rose or otherwise) bring him from its red depths.
Garnet tells him to seize his opportunity between his teeth and run. Run upright, wind in your hair, hands clenched around a phone blasting drums, towards the finish line. Run like the world is being created under your feet. Run like your soul is begging you to, fast and hard and free.
A car horn honks, ripping past screeching guitars, and grabs his attention.
Andy pulls his headphones from his ears, keeping light on the balls of his feet so his legs don’t begin to cramp. His mom is looking at him from the driver’s side of the family’s mini van, one eyebrow raised.
“Do you,” she yells over the roar of the river on his other side, “have any idea how far from home you are?!”
“Seven point two miles,” he says before his teeth can click over the words. He wasn’t keeping track, but he’s always been able to gauge distance like that. He rubs the back of his neck. “I…I lost track of time. Sorry.”
His mom huffs and leans over to open the passenger side door. “I’d worry about you running away if it weren’t for the fact I saw your laptop on the kitchen counter.”
“Mom,” Andy says, ignoring her comment. It’s true anyway. “I can’t get in the car, my legs will cramp–”
“We’re supposed to be over at the Jimenez’s in an hour,” she tells him and pats the seat. “If you were really worried about cramping, you would have remembered that.” At the look on his face, her eyes narrow. “Unless you did remember and that’s why you’re seven point two miles from home.”
“No,” Andy denies and forces himself to laugh. “I love going over to see the Jimenez’. For sure. Unquestionable.”
“Unbelievable,” his mom mutters and waits to pull a u-turn until he shuts the door and puts on his seatbelt.
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It’s not that he doesn’t like the Jimenez family. He does. It’s just that no one in his family believes that their youngest, Marin, is trying to place a curse on him.
Cheloneuniverse 