An MSPA Ancestor Tale
Chapter One: Of Betrayal and Lust
- "I can't, they're expecting me before sunr--"
"Just one more day."
- "I just...I really can't stay."
"They can wait a morning for your return."
- They need me there; I can't just disappear."
"Then I'll lock you in the dungeons."
- "Come on, now you're being grubbish."
"I mean it."
- "You'd never leave me there long."
"I can resist temptation."
- "I know how to escape a number of ways, as you very well know."
"I'll double the guards."
- "And risk me harmed? I think not."
"...You're a stubborn bull."
- "And you, a foolish old goat."
"Why must you leave me? You haven't the faintest how boring these trolls can be."
- "Because I have duties, unlike you."
"Even leaders need leisure."
- "Not me, evidently."
"...just leave it on."
- "Vetus will have my head."
"So be it."
- "...alright, fine. If only for your heart."
"And my heart is glad for it."
- "It had better be. I'm risking the next few dawns sleeping with one eye open."
Tapered fingers skimmed across moon-kissed skin, the gentle touch made chill by prickling claws. Both trolls shivered subtly at the contact, to each others delight.
- "How long do I have?"
"Thirty minutes until sunrise. Enough to get you there."
A moment's silence passed between them. Heavy boot-clad footfalls made their way across the broad room, another set of feet, bare and silent, close behind. Moonlight bathed the both of them in a magenta and chartreuse. Such a stark contrast suited both their grim faces as the gentle contact between them was broken.
"Come back to me."
Wide tawny wings eased open, fluttering demurely in a shy show of power. With the lift of flight assisting him, Firos reached out with war-scarred hands, cupping The Highblood's cheek planted a gentle kiss against Makarin's damp brow.
- "I'll come back. I promise."
Near-transparent wings beating double, Firos took his silent leave through the open balcony doors, all too aware of the indigo eyes trained on his retreating form. The warmth of his presence fled rapidly from the room, reducing it to its former cold and bitter winds, echoing through the halls as if a skeleton, a shell of something once thriving. The Highblood stepped forward quite suddenly, shutting the glass doors as if it would allow Firos' spirit to linger. Large hands remaining on the stained metal handles, Makarin gazed out into the night, eyes sweeping the treetops, the vast valley below, the distant blot on the sky he knew to be Firos.
The wars were stirring in their beds of thorns out there, he could feel it. The growing tention, ready to snap back like a bowstring drawn too tight, breaking and lashing out it was everywhere. It was a palpable force, threatening to blow in every window of his fortress, invade the places he deemed most sacred, entwine his throne like an ill-used vine of ivy, choking the life out of all he'd achieved This would only get more difficult from here on out. Each time Firos left, it would be harder and harder to return. The Highblood couldn't help but feeling this would be nearly the last time they would see each other at all outside the battlefield. At long last, Makarin's hands fell away from the now warmed handles, leaving the inevitable to its own ultimate demise. He was a Highblood, but he could still only do so much