m e k h i (incomplete)

o n e

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o n e 

The dark of the night stirred from its sleep, roaming around in slow and calloused movements. It's tired, dreary and worn out from being held captive by the day, from having been imprisoned in the sheath of light. It had just begun to spur, free for the time it's given in the night, weak form slowly beginning to arise in energy.

Brittle breezes accompany it, with cold winds softly swaying. Cold pockets of air had begun to dip down from the realm of the sky, beginning to steal away warmth, emitting a hollowness. The dark ignores it, staying in it's solitude, isolating itself. It's musk sticks to the buildings of the palace, getting as close as possible to the world of beings that breathe. It's attention had strayed, peeking through the windows, sight falling onto the King at the seat of his desk.

The room is lit with a hue of soft yellow, the dim light caressing his warm skin, as his hand scribbles down messily into the record he had. A groan tumbles from his lips, finding the work dreary and long. His left hand had begun aching hours ago, and the muscles had become strained, pulsing with pain. It's almost numb, but not quite there yet, still letting him feel wrath. A hard bump has raised onto the skin, the grip on his pen much tighter than it should've been.

It drops, rolling over to the dip in the book, his other hand massaging his left wrist. Eyes fall onto the next three piles warily, feeling his stomach dip and another sigh falls from his lips. Normally this work would've been split out between him and his half, but that wasn't the case here. He was burdened with all of it. He shakes his head, picking up the pen and feeling his hand cry out again. It was a task that nevertheless had to be done.

The male had been in his office for about five hours, returning to the solitude he had built around himself after lunch. He had surpassed both dinner and evening, day already giving it's position up to night. The fire he had lit was dwindling, on its last tether before it gave out completely. He was beginning to feel the effect, skin shivering with the cold breaching the room, the North at it's coldest in winter times.

The office was still as pristine as it was when he first inhibited it. Sleek, red and cushioned sofas were scarcely sat on and touched. Mahogany desk, still smooth and polished, without a single scratch. Carpet still untouched, without a mark.

The only part he had worn out was his seat, tearing with time and becoming old. It was the part he used the most, and he didn't let many visit his office often. Meetings were always held elsewhere.

This was his space. Only his. He wasn't willing to share.

His frame was much too broad to fit comfortably in his chair. His skin was mocha, a beautiful shade of brown, warm and kempt to the eyes. A thick mop of black locks sat on top of his head, varied in texture with some parts holding loose curls and others more of a wave. His jaw was clenched, thick black brows furrowed tightly as his eyes were on the current tax document. They were the most abnormal shade to walk earth, a teal sat on top of a bright white.

A grey tee hugged his from, fabric splayed thinly, unable to accommodate large and bulging muscles. His legs were long and uncomfortably hitched underneath the desk, his form cramped. Tattooed fingers swirl the pen, eyes reading the words, before scribbling down another signature, placing the paper into it's file.

His attention turns to the pile sat in the centre of the desk, eyes turned to the very top. A scowl skims his lips, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose falling of. He rakes a hand through his hair, annoyance kissing his features. He was sent a letter every year on this particular day. He can see the stamp from the Council on top, the latest one coming in today at noon. He had left it unopened, just as he had left the other eighteen. He knew what it was – nothing but a countdown.