─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆
❛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐔𝐒.
we have seen the worse of each other.
our souls are intertwined. he could be
a decaying corpse, and i will become
the maggots digging into hi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
█║▌║█║▌║▌║█║▌║█║▌║▌║ █║▌║█║▌║▌█║▌║█║▌║▌
HER SOLE TAXON CAME IN THE FRIGHT OF WINTER. She could recall the day as if it were a dream's fading reverie—continued to relive the moment they met as if the fallen snow that had blinded her then still lingered now, never thawing from her oxen eyes in spite of that frost having long since melted away.
Following his arrival at Olympus by Ares, the son of Hypnos had been reserved; never out of place, never out of line. A child halve the worth of his father, but twice as wistful in his golden gaze. Quiet, quiet. Hera had ripped curses from his lips before a spoken word, and when those syllables finally spilled forth, they were laced with a defiance for life—for survival, for the chance to prove himself against the odds stacked high against him.
It all echoed like the mournful song of a frozen bird, haunting her soul long after her marriage to Zeus.
She had chosen Micah to be her champion then, right where he had bitten his tongue and forced himself to kneel before her with a simmering rage barely contained beneath his dishonest submission. A boy clearly devoid of obedience, but with a consuming blaze smoldering deep in his eyes, a fire Hera knew she could tame and mold into something deserving of her attention.
From the moment her son dragged him in like a pup held by the scruff of its neck, Hera saw potential in the son of Hypnos—certain that he would become the sickle she needed to reclaim the family that had slipped through her fingers before it could ever truly flourish.
Today, as she lay on her earthen cage, Hera felt his approach like the last gloat of a cuckoo before it murdered the rightful heir in another's nest, true nature finally revealed.
It felt like a promise fulfilled.
The only thing that set a prince apart from a reigning king was the wait.
Micah's life has been a drawn out vigil held by immortals who regarded him as a dying ember—of value only if he burned bright enough to raze the path for others. He had been beaten too cruelly and loved too deeply, hailed by the wrong people and overburdened by those who were supposed to be the right ones; a prince only in mockery through it all, held together by the promise of a larger crown that would not be placed upon his head no matter how viciously he hurt for it.
Micah has toppled thrones, and it did nothing; he attempted redemption and achieved nothing; he sought forgiveness in love, only to be left with nothing.
The only thing that set a prince apart from a reigning king was the wait, and Micah was the prince of nothing, will be the king of no one, condemned to wait time and time again to fulfill the destinies others had laid out for him without ever grasping his own fate in his hands. How many more debts would he have to clear before he could begin to reap the rewards? How many more battles did he have to fight before he could claim his own victory? How many more blows must he endure before he achieves something—anything—to justify the pain and sacrifice he's suffered?
