Emery has always been troubled.
After struggling to accept the sudden death of her mother, she was forced to depend on her grieving father for both knowledge and guidance. As she battles through her own conflicting feelings of confusion, her family'...
The blood in his veins curdled, clotting with each frantic step that he took as he escaped to the nearest sign of privacy. It was there, in the same forest that had comforted him many times before, where he found solitude. It now felt impossible to escape agony, however, as the hovering trees suddenly became a terrible cage. Although he had grown into a man of great repute several years ago—while still continuously becoming the renowned Alpha known as King—he felt like a child underneath the piercing sky as it stared down at him from above. It glared at no one in particular, disappointed in the cruel ways in which the world works. The branches tried to envelop the man's shaking, devastated form, just as they have always done, but such unexpected grief tormented him to the point of change.
He ripped at each gentle leaf that reached out to him, and much like his heart, tore them to pieces. His hands flailed about, striking and stripping the bark of nature as he fumbled on his unstable feet. The clothes that covered his body was soaked in different remnants of filth—sweat, tears, soil. Beside himself, King was finally weak to an uncontrollable anger that only ever affected those robbed from their much awaited fates.
He was one of the unlucky few.
Although he was mourning the loss of a stranger, he had never felt such gruelling heartache before. It was a pain that even surpassed the deaths of his most closest kin, usurping blood relatives and found family alike. As strong as the core of ancient trees, the intensity of it forced him to react as though a vital piece of himself was taken away and shredded before his eyes. And, while the Earth wept alongside him, his sorrow brought him to his knees and bended his will until he no longer believed himself to be alive. His fingers rooted themselves into the dirt as he bared his teeth—threatening the very insects that started to feed on the remains of her now lifeless body. Unable to dig a path to her, his stomach lurched at the thought of her new forever companions. His canines stretched and strengthened at the illusion of sticky maggots and prickly beetles crawling over her late form.
His throat clenched as he sucked in another heavy breath, hyperventilating as he silently begged to take her place. There was no doubt in his mind, that if he could have sacrificed his life to spare her own that was cut too short, then he would have done so a thousand times over.
She was merely a faceless being to him, and yet, her death was a suffering like no other. The reality of never meeting her, never touching her, never speaking to her burned a hole deep within his chest that was destined to stay empty. A stream of tears followed each pump of his heart as he tried to imagine what her name was amongst a million options. Did her parents name her after a beautiful flower that grows despite the wildest of conditions? Did her parents name her after an adored member of her righteous lineage? Did her parents argue and argue until they agreed on the perfect name for such a darling creature? They could have called her Meira, and she would have been the light that King needed to see now so hopelessly. They could have called her Blyana, a character so strong that he would have devoted his entire life to impressing her. They could have called her Amias, and he would only then be able to understand what it meant to bask in an overpowering embrace of love. He knelt into the cold ground once again and listened for a murmur that was not meant to come. A sign of life that was not promised.
King wondered about her appearance—about the skin that he never once gazed upon, about the hair that he had always wanted to run his fingers through, about the eyes that he knew he would have stared into for hours, and about the lips that he had long craved to taste. Did moles litter the majority of her skin? Was her hair the shade of a stick of cinnamon? Did her lips twitch before she smiled? Was her eyes the colour of pure hazel? The image of such a mysterious beauty was unknown, but he vowed to uncover her identity as soon as he gained the strength to stand straight without her. A sob then ransacked his form as he struggled with the sudden idea of never being able to know her personality—about the little, hidden pieces of her mind, about her interests and dislikes that she rarely thought to mention, about the things that bothered her, and about her memories that shaped her. Since paintings and parents could still reveal her looks after death, in the sense of truly knowing her, she would forever be missing from him.
King used the back of his trembling hands to drag down the skin of his face, hiding his misery beneath a warped mask that he fought to put on. His lips quivered as he whispered a quiet, inaudible breath of words that mingled with his frequent cries of despair. King asked for both forgiveness and punishment, feeling undeserving of survival and unworthy of her presence. The very voice that had spent years leading the entirety of the Ventus Pack with an influential fist, with a compelling tone and controlling twist had now failed to muster a single speck of noise. Despite only emitting the faint sound of his breathing, there was something churning within his battered soul.
"Take what you will—all that I have to offer you." For the first time since he felt the passing of his fated mate, King spoke aloud to all those who could possibly hear him. His voice scratched the sides of his raw throat as he implored the Goddess of the Moon to listen earnestly to his devotion. "Accept the very skin off my back, extract the gallons of blood that courses through my veins, remove even my beloved title that is worth nothing to me anymore. If you could return her to this pitiful world of the living, then I will gladly take her place among the unforgettable dead. All I ask is to witness her take a lasting breath, and I will trade my vitality in exchange for a lifetime of watching over her."
Similar to the thief that had stolen his defenceless mate so quickly, the Moon Goddess revealed herself to the grief-stricken man through a mist of grey and consumed his overwhelming bereavement without an ounce of guilt. While King desperately craved the arms of his lost loved one, Dalnim fed into her own selfish desires and offered him a corrupt solution.
King gasped back a loud wail at the sight of his divine creator and soon-to-be saviour. As Dalnim smiled down at him with a glistening row of top teeth, King firmly believed that she had heard the great roar of his fidelity to his mate and that she had came to reward them for their allegiance to each other. Even death could not pull their bond apart. His heart soared at the thought of gaining a gift after confronting the ultimate tragedy, but he was so shocked that the hair on his arms lifted out of fear. The corners of his lips tilted upwards as he felt the pressure start to dissipate. Dalnim had come—to presumably save him from his worst nightmare.
One day, perhaps after decades of endurance, King would come to terms with the fact that betrayal was invented by the immortal. And, that, those who have healed you can also destroy you.
"Come with me," a string of honeyed words slipped past her lips as she extended her arms, "for only I can give you a life worth living."
King felt his hand burn as he reached toward his only chance at salvation.
W O R D C O U N T : 1530
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Hello!
I'm back here again, which is not exactly what I wanted to work on when it comes to my writing, but sometimes, you just have to get through it. In truth, I struggle to work under a lot of pressure, especially when there's so much else going on. Like I mentioned in previous updates, though, I enjoy just writing to write and not writing to build something. There's something about just writing scenes—sometimes quick and oftentimes random—that comforts me in a way.
That being said, I always feel like I'm slacking when it comes to writing, and while I do believe that I am to an extent, I have to remind myself that this is meant to be a hobby. It's meant to make me happy and not stressed. Unfortunately, amongst my other responsibilities, this one often gets pushed to the side.
Why is it that I'm always in my feelings when I update? How strange. Anyway, enjoy my diary sesh, hahaha!
