Feral Eclipse(EDITING)

30. Young Hero

I want to stop feeling this way
But who am I, without this pain?

.

Similar to a soliloquy of bruised and forgotten trench letters, the taste of sage and purgatory could be wafted atop dried lips until they were cracking like adamant shards of glass, and the ridges of an ashy chest was painted til the glare was culm.

Below the waistband of his tattered pants which fervently became like a second skin into his abraded flesh, dirt and mud pro-licked a waste which fled down his knee as the beating rain soaked everything he was. Furthermore, distinguishing himself stimulated into congestion and iron indignity.

Without a doubt, he realized as his eyebrows narrowed together, the northern plains which was left unattended needed shaping into the outskirts of the territory— he was far from undone out of task, skimming the dirt beds which piled into compliance, compacted soil bedding he only loathed by time but would grow fond of by time as well.

The wind knew many ages and yet the male's blackened tresses grew lengthier drawing eyes out of sight, only capable to recognize the months by the swift change of greenery and the fog which clung around his sweat deathlessly.

Only imagining the sweetening savor of appeal, he'd caught the eye of many females and yet all he knew was delivery; toiling. It hurt to blink many tears away and before he could think again it was undone. He was undone. Knees clattering together like silver spoons until he fell bashfully forward onto his face, mouth agape before being filled with compost and olive verdant.

Picturesque images of his mother invading his head as light sobs escaped his watering mouth, the bile rising to the back of throat threatening to either spill or suffocate him underneath mounds of malignity and organic waste. The woody scythe clanked beside him as he inhaled threw chaos and wedded storms of desolation. The clambering cage which encompassed his heart stored a rather fast thumping beat, wavering inside his mind, collectively crowing out his ability to hear through his ears.

Dead she was only a time ago, he couldn't muster a vow or a single date.

Time had escaped and been submerging him in a sea he was willing to drown in but if only mortality allowed it.

The sound of misery spoke so quietly but spitefully did it puncture only wounds made in his skull blinding him of passion, the decency to pursue chasteness, and the tenderness of leniency. Poor eldest son, dearest brother...the noblest of us all, only satisfied by the purge of wittiness and the schemes of strategic faculty, for the standards of living, how had he comprised so soon?

Achilles.

In such healthy design only made for a king. Without treason, Love rules us all without a man alive whom could resist it. Had the chains of hell broken thoroughly could he see if he wouldn't give up would he be divisible by demise.

Before he knew it, young Alexander had been hoisted upward by the sleeves of his greasy attire with his weight being fully supported by another's bulky arms, without him deciphering the identity of who had rescued him from the heaps of a humus conditioned, hell.

The depictions of his loveliest ghost making truces with his heart over a game of chess stirred his creative power, while all he could think about was how bad mortality coached his heart into a loosing game.