Feral Eclipse(EDITING)

14. Elysian

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Something shared between mortal and the greatest of monstrosities, love is conventional. Exceptional. it is what ties heaven and hell, sinners and saints.

Without it,

All is left is labor and the plagued souls damned to absent minds and vacant spaces for hearts.

The loud tapping of the older male's foot is what kept Alexander awake at night and viable.

Forcing his measly legs forward, the young prince calculated every lasting blow he received to the shoulder, soon came a jab directly on the bridge of his spine and another to the back of his head.

Before he could plant a solidified stance into sapless soil planes, for someone so withstanding and feeble, he slips landing face plowed into muddy debris and squelched clay. He caves in a bruised chest for leveling only to be buried further by his brother's knee. The squeak that escapes his throat is all that is heard not by him but by his assaulter's hollowed-out ears that were soundless from prayers. The taste for blood resided on the tip of his tongue as did the tearing of flesh embedded into his talons.

It was the unruliest of days beseeched inside the tears of burly muscles, and his own ichor that sketched leaves and pasture.

Though he wouldn't croak until the eclipse turned feral, he wouldn't defer now til the sublunary had his cries memorized.

Hearing his aggressor's rugged voice counting down from five is what gave him enough dazed time to regain composure that grew even more delegated as his feet stomped into the dirt, tarnishing his toes and decolorizing the calloused.

Adonis, glorious even with battered knuckles, spits the number, "Five." delivering yet again another damaging infliction to the mundane Alexander's jaw, snapping his head sideward to an awkward angle.

He was losing sensibility, along with identity. For he was a Lycanthrope. He could scream, flinch even under agonizing torment but a born Lycan he was and the Lycan he would eternally remain. A predominance to lead and seize control had been beckoned forward, he came to the conclusion he could do it. Considerably it could be easy to convert time, to rewind his own pride.

The brutality within smiles, grinning ear to ear upon hearing the crackling of the little boy's neck but he grew more furious when the refusal was potent upon realization the child didn't cry aloud like the monster inside had grown to love.

In illusion to frustration, Alexander had known plenty of heinous villains and he wasn't accustomed to love. He'd known pain, tampered with treason and vile conviction. It became insufferable. No matter how much he tried to defeat his responsible demons, he figured it was better if he didn't try. Not even a little, not even at all.

The young and brave had learned neither to whimper despite every bone in his body desiring to yield for there's nothing in this world that pleased him more than to wane his ability. Lasting now was the contemplation; was losing his strength better than sanctioning it?

A single tear stood anointed between the barriers of his eyelid and eyelashes, but grey irises had tucked them backward behind a void. He was stricken once again but his focus was obscured alongside a mind elsewhere. An attempt to deflect, to divert the track of time.

From the earliest ages of tyranny did the bronze hairs begin to grey on top of a King's head, whose heart was swelling to the brick with impatience, all he had known was a convenience to an assembly. More than smug, slippery lips tug into a frown before panning into a thin straightened line. His hands entrapped across his chest as his gaze burned with fury.  As easily as he'd stood to his feet did he become engulfed without concern at the show his sons were forecasting.