You Are His...

You Are His: White Dove

(tw: PTSD and graphic violence)

I am his saving grace.

Hands that heal against hands that take.

War and peace, interlaced.

Hands from the past sprout from each crevice of his body. Each weighty life that he took mercilessly seems to bury itself deep inside his rage-encrusted soul, residing there as if he houses the entirety of Hades' Underworld right underneath his scarred skin and ancient bones.

Inside his ear canal, they reside- the voices. Swimming in his bone marrow, the countless number of hands paddle their way through every inch of his body, surfacing when they are called upon by madness.

By the echoes of past, present, and future wars.

Speaking into his ear, murmuring nothing but evil intentions and daunting thoughts, pure rage to evoke a side of himself that he hates.

It's your hands that can lure him out of this unforgiving state.

Craving warm blood to cascade down calloused fingers,

The feeling is addicting, and it lingers.

A word, a touch, or a smell can be his trigger.

Anything. In his eyes, the accumulation of rage flickers.

Over the many years, I have become his peace bringer.

Fingers tingling and skin crawling with the hands that wring out the sanity from every muscle, every tendon, he cannot focus on anything but the memories of each life that his bare hands have stolen.

He can't suppress the shiver as another hand slowly slides down his arm, the hair upon his limbs raising as it attempts to pull him down to a place he knows he cannot overcome without you. The disembodied appendage's intentions are painfully obvious: madness and murder.

And thankfully, this episode of losing his control happens in the safety of his own home, the only place where he knows he is secure. Nothing here to hurt him but himself, and he feels his lips call out your name as it becomes too much to bear.

The hands, too tight.

The voices, too loud.

He needs the softness of your fingertips to brush away the bloody ones trying to claw their way out, and he's desperate to hear your voice, his anchor to stay in the present. The past calls for him, and as more ghosts come to haunt him, the softer his pleas become, his voice strangled by the hands which he's guilty of adding to the collection.

You barely catch the request for your peaceful presence as you occupy a different room, and the shattering of glass perks your ears and stiffens your shoulders. With his stature, he is always so careful. Hands that you'd never think could harm another human being gently caress you, until you request for more, of course. But, otherwise, he is a gentle giant with you.

The hands that haul König off to the darkest corners of his mind, leaving a vessel overflowing with nothing but unadulterated wrath when done with him, are invisible to your eyes as you do not have an ounce of rage within yourself. Your soul is pure, a peaceful solace, the personification of serenity.

I am his white dove.

Wrath's worst enemy when I come.

Powerful enough to make it run,

But not strong enough to completely overcome

Such violence. My hands can only stun

It for so long. It's never long enough.

Hunched over and close to the brink of war's possessiveness, you provide comfort for someone who is lost. You construct yourself to become a physical tether for the emotional storm brewing within, sewing the white flag for him to utilize when he wins against this intimate conflict, your hands grappling against the ones that have captured his cheeks.

Fingers walk up his spine, tiptoeing each vertebra. Up, up, up they crawl until they swallow his head whole, preventing him from thinking a single rational thought.

Your calling of his name only hooks his attention in a way that catches your breath in those already nervous lungs. As his expression holds a familiar one, this is not the man you love.

This is the epitome of war who reaches out to you too quickly for you to react defensively. It's as if he has become a puppet for the spillage of blood, the intangible hands from his past making his fingers squeeze your throat and press you against the floor as he hovers over you. His legs straddle your hips so you can't escape, and his massive hand quickly captures both of yours.

The closer he becomes to stealing your life, the more he strays away from you and the peace you're able to grant.

"König," you plea with him, voice straining against his strong grip. "Mein Liebe-"

"Bitte..."

He doesn't hear you.

The voices are too loud.

Too addicting.

Too attractive.

Too much.

The last thing you see is the hatred burning in his electric blue eyes before the blanket of darkness captures you.

But it isn't your fault, no, little white dove.

It is but the consequence of trying to love an omen of war being a divinity of peace. You had so much to give as did he, but it's not your fault you had too much love to give that you chose to ignore the constant alarm bells ringing in your head.

He doesn't come around from his trance of a nightmare until your eyes see nothing. Those beautiful eyes of yours, always full of life and promising hope, now stare blankly at him as he now witnesses everything before him. Focusing on the scene, his sobs full of sorrowful pleas go unheard by you as your ears are now covered by Death's hands while your bloodshot eyes now hold that uncharacteristic void of despair.

You become just another hand that feeds into the rage. It holds him right around the neck where he last held you, never quite disappearing. The hope of saving him has killed you whereas that same hope has him in a chokehold.

The hope that it was all just a nightmare.

That he'll wake up and find you sleeping peacefully next to him with a string of drool dribbling out of your mouth instead of blood. Puffy eyes from lack of sleep after a night of endless lovemaking and not from hands that took so much from you. Hands that should have given you pleasure, not death.

Peace will not win against war. Not this time.

You may have won all the battles thus far, but the war against war itself was futile, a fruitless struggle.

Ascended from the heavens, you came.

As did the omen of war, both from the same vein.

Both shrouded in gold but what a shame.

A shame your ichor couldn't share the same fate.