pk "Mi wizh lat wuz dead." Llokir Hawksong.[PK]

[.. 26]

It's a series of moments. Quick. A moving picture show. The world's most hectic play.

He had rushed to grow up, but he missed his childhood when it was gone.
"Sometimes you're going to have to apologize for **** you shouldn't have to apologize for." The adult said. Llokir scoffed at the words being spoken to him. How would Ehrendil understand any of this? He couldn't. You don't back down, you don't roll over, and you don't apologize. He was young, but he knew, the moment he let himself look like a door mat, he becomes a door mat. 

There were things he should've apologized for, that he never did.

The boy's eyes settle on the goblin, bewildered. "What'z wrong, orc bruddah?" She asks. Fire raises in his throat, his face flushing. She couldn't even put two words together, but he still put together her intentions. "I'm not your brother." He spits out. Never would Llokir let himself be compared with a blah speaking, practically feral uruk. He was far too civilized. 
"Mi know you aren't mi momo'z kubby, but you ah fellow orc!" She says. So excited. It's almost endearing. He wants to be friends with her- she's about his age. They looked similar. It'd be like having a sister. He wanted a sister. Her name is En'ara, he later learns, too late to befriend her. She would have been a good influence, but yet.. "Hardly the same as you, I'm sure." He says, indignant. He never learns. He never changes.

He had potential. So much potential. He could've been anything.
 "Don't really know. A doctor? An actor? A scientist?" He shrugged in response to the question, asking what he wanted to do when he was older. "I want to be a lot of things, but most of all, I want to be exceptional. I want to impress the people back at home. Let em' know I'm not some goblin kid who punches little girls or whatever." Llokir Hawksong swings his arms by his side idly, playing with his cape. La'io Valkryne nodded slowly as he chewed on some of his own thoughts. "You wouldn't ever hurt anyone intentionally, ti?"
Llokir scoffs at the question. "Ne. I've hurt people on purpose, and I'd do it again. People try to hurt me, I hurt them back."  Always out for the last laugh, the demonstration of his bravery and foolishness. The signal that he's not a coward. He's not. 

How was it any different than before? He'd done it so many times.
"What was that, child?" The elf asks. Air. Llokir doesn't know his name at the time, but he learns it not much after. The adult puts his hand on his sword. It's one of the defining moments in his life, he thinks. It means nothing in the moment. Llokir swipes his cape to the side and puts his hand on his own sword. He's ready to fight. He's seven years old. Stupid.
Aeravir is by his side. The boy was always by his side. Llokir fancied him, a childhood crush, but he never pursued it. The ordeal results in nothing, Llokir thinks. No one stands up for him, except for Aeravir. Foolish, headstrong Aeravir. Llokir doesn't like the trait when he can see it in others. He never turns the judgement inward. He never thinks to.
"I'll deal with those sorts as they come. I always have, and I will, until I die." Llokir had said to Aeravir. Stupid.

He recalls the first time he ran into them. 
"I don't care, I will never go to Krugmar." Llokir spits, his sword drawn and pointed at the Uruk. They had tried to convince him to return to his people. As if he would betray his family like that! He was better than that. He was civilized. He was exceptional. He was not like them. The boy refused to prove everyone right. 

And he thinks of all of the things he promised to those he loves.
"Will you wait for me too?" It's a heartbreaking question, Llokir thinks. In the moment, the answer is a yes. An immediate yes. But he doesn't say it, because he knows it's not true. Llokir Hawksong grimaced some out of hesitance. "Well, I- I'll come back when you're an adult too. But-"
Aeravir seemed satisfied with that. "Okay. As long as you come back." The younger boy murmured.
"I'll always come back for you." He replies. His chest aches. Aeravir lifts up his pinky with a beaning smile. "Pinky swear?"
"I promise." Llokir lied, hooking their little fingers together. 

So many warnings.
"Zometimez etz bettah tah remove youhrzelf from thah zituatchun, wit' wordz ohr runnin'...." But it wasn't fair. It's not fair. Why should he back down?
"You're basically digging yourself a hole, very quickly." He was in the right! Why should he stop? Why should he apologize? So many questions in his head.
"After a certain point, it becomes your attitude that brings trouble." You're blaming me, he thinks.
"Your words have consequences, I'm asking that you be careful!" He has every right to be angry, he thinks.
"You need to watch how you talk to others. For all you know, next time you act like that and fight someone, they might just kill you."  She was right.
"There is a difference between being weak and continuously getting yourself hurt!"

The memories are vivid. Some are nice. Some are painful. He doesn't want to remember them. There are so many more that he could be thinking of. His time with his father. His constant riffing with Kindrel. Watching his sisters grow. Their screams and whines were awful in the moment, but they're pleasant memories now, memories of freshly plucked babes who would never shut up. He can still hear Merku screaming.
Merku is screaming and crying. She's begging. He can hear her, but he thinks he shouldn't be able to. Llokir is screaming too. He's in agony. This is not a memory. These are his dying moments. He can not feel his arms, but he is distinctly aware that they are moving, trying desperately to stop the dagger that cuts his throat. He is twelve years old. Merku is five. He is not a painter. He is not a doctor. He is not an actor. He's nothing now, but a memory.
 

Edited June 22, 2021 by Brawny

[TheBigBubbles 650]

Spoiler

😭 my kub, nice post!

 

[Duarchist 272]

Another letter goes unanswered. Assuming ghosthood, the Archvigilant passes through the hollow corridors of the frozen keep and allows her mind to wander. Where have you gone, my friend? When will you return?

 

Spoiler

im sobbing rn who will palm my face like a basketball if not llokir?

 

[Satyrdays 147]

Merku had cried for hours over the bloodied body of her brother killed in his prime trying to do what he though was best for her. Her own person was quickly being stained with the crimson liquid and she was unable to breathe- She can't breathe. She can't think. She can't feel. All she hears is the screams of her big brother, her protector, bouncing around her head over and over. Nothing else but the screams.

 

Even still the five year old orc had tried her best to collect herself to present this horrible news to her mother, having her friend, the one who had comforted her, take the arm of the young orc from the corpse and wrap it in unassuming cloth. The body was hidden in the caves of Krugmar to be collected for the funeral once they were sure the Rex would accept its extraction.

She presented the arm of her brother to her mother, the two coming together in a tight embrace. "Merku kahn... I kahn deal wit' dese emotionz aftah bruddah iz burried." She mutters to her mother as she is comforted.

In the tiny girl's dreams would be the sight of her brother held under the knee of a red orc, his arm being cut off, with a green orc slicing his neck and another red orc digging his tusks into Llokir's scalp. The screams... She could never forget it.

[TheBigBubbles 650]

Urza Hawksong was greeted by the campfire by her beautiful baby girl and an unknown human, in her confusion she is told to sit. That she does, and to her horror, halfway through introductions is presented with the arm of her son, still covered in all of his rings. She wanted to scream, she wanted to take whoever had hurt him and tear him limb from limb. She stifles her horror instead, moving to comfort her child who had thought she might disown her, nothing in her mind but the safety of her children, one of which seemed to have taken a liking to shamanism. The thoughts that would race through her head would be of blame... but not of the orcs in Krugmar. Of herself. Was there anything she could have done? She could never be the perfect parent, atleast, she thought she had failed.

[tea with Gwyn 217]

The news reached Lya late as she reclined beside the hearth of the Hawksong Manor, cradling her youthful daughter Asula in her arms. The girl had gotten so big, so quickly. Lya knew it would only continue. She had raised a girl before, after all. But it never became any easier.

 

The mirth drained from her pale face as she was informed of her nephew's fate. Lya was not spared the gruesome details, but thankfully she'd had a mind to cover Asula's ears so that she didn't have to hear what had happened.

 

They wept for hours. To Asula, Llokir had been a supportive and fun elder cousin with a lot to say. To Lya, Llokir was a nephew with a golden heart, buried in raging embers and cloaked in indignant flame. She had hoped he would be able to escape to a better life, that he could have been happy, but it was not meant to be.

 

Lya had explained to Asula years ago how death worked and why it happened. But that had been natural death. Impersonal death. A nebulous concept which, for a child, seemed infinitely distant. But now, here she was, struggling to explain why people die when they don't have to, trying to figure out how to describe or even determine where Llokir's soul set off to following his death. It was so hard to think about anything other than the loss; the hole in Lya's heart which had been filled by a nephew with infinite potential, snuffed. Grief, once again, became Lya's closest friend.

[DistantCryprid 265]

Boreal was notified of the death of their nephew by his mother, Uzra, they were not really open about their emotions, but there was still grief in their eyes, they remember small altercations between them and Llokir that they would come to treasure further onto the future, they lay down by a familiar grave, the grass well kept and overgrown, and they pray, voice low as a lullaby, for the grasp of death to be kind to him, for the spider to cradle the child now that they couldn't.