creative writing Móðr

[don dada 579]

móðr

 

 

 

 

 

 

i wonder every day of my life what went through my father's head

all the fortunes gathered and blood spilt underneath ferrum meeting flesh

only to weep for a son who promised him nothing but the same

and nothing left to part with but the battle of trying to be more then

 

 

 

His hand gathers strength at the stepping stones; It had finally caught up to Him and His company. The embodiment of a father's sins passed down to their son, now knelt before the manifestation of Sin that laid a trap for the bounty hunter; corpses of leper-demons and imps scattering along the surfaces of a destroyed Hallowcliffe. It laid claim on such a venerated symbol to its field; to hone it, shape it into a deeper darkness, to accompany the ruin it wished unto the lands, with Him at the helm.

 

The flame birthed from Its fingertips burned at a constant into His soul, into His chest; oh, so painful, yet no flesh lay scorched of the affliction, not as malflame would, no - this was a different kind of torment. The feeling of a pagan crucified at the stake, burned alive, His soul threatened out of His body, the lingering memory of an agony in a loop.

 

Horned teeth at the helm, and a virulent gaze lay on His company, who were duly unharmed. "But you were not the objective." Bleeding, empty sockets turn away from the would-be princess, now focused on the one scorned, the sellsword born to a father of malicious renown, the only eye saddled at the center pulsating as if it were beating out of the man's own chest.

 

 

 

i wonder what my mother saw for me when she swept me away

galley ship setting course for lands unknown and a fleeting embrace

only to find tragedy when my life begins and hers meets its end

and nothing shared in our last moments but unspoken regrets

 

 

 

 

"Neither of you will be able to leave until I have I̷̳̓̓̿̍̽͌̎, or a Ņ̷̢͚͕͈̬͕̰̹̗̞̘͆̉̐̆̐̃̑̈́͆̅̈͛͛̑͝." Its hand stretches out, an offer forced into a choice - His only choice. Words became a blur, and a malleable, damaged soul came under duress from the Black Pontiff. As if organ separated itself from the physical body, only the ghost of these pains lingered from toe to scalp along His figure. Fate stood before them, mocking the deliberation that continued under drowned thoughts.

 

But the first to act was neither He nor the Pontiff. It was the dame - begging for a mercy, to spare Him the depths of what she knew to be a path one can never turn back from. Her body came between Him, strength asunder, and It, with a newborn desperation. She willed herself to protect him, as He did for her, guilt striking at the tips of her span knowing she caused His pain by bringing him there.

 

A hand sits firm at the nest of a rip on her tunic, and the princess resigns herself to fatigue, unable to present a defense for the burdened man any longer. Plunging forth before the woman, He stood before the Pontiff with a blank, weary gaze. Eyes dim between palm and the distance between himself and His dagger; though in the end He swallows the weight of what He chose to do next.

 

 

 

i wonder what truly awaited me at shore when the boat struck land

riches beyond even a father's aspirations, a life unknown to a mother

yet here i stand before death itself as if it were all a illusion

in the end, a trap, committed to ensnaring the soul to fate

 

 

 

The visions came; the sight of realms, both land and sea left plundered by a darkness that embraced the chaos, fires born of an otherworldly form unrelenting against the shape of the fields that encompassed. The sun did not belong where He stood, neither the night sky bearing a light to guide the remnants that screamed for liberation in such a wretched world. 

 

Then came the manifestations. Corruption meeting the very being, soul and its energy to form bestial commonalities of horns, wings, tails of all shape and color. And what was left when these manifestations withered away? A fertile ash to remain astray until a rekindling to lay a different form.

 

No longer was the Pontiff present, neither the Princess, nor the shape of the space around him. Endless darkness and the incarnations, all lined together with weapons ready to be plunged into Him as a temperament to what would form the man next.

 

But they were all the same. The same in one aspect of which greeted the horror of the man who accepted the hand: He was staring at himself. Every form He was fated to take, whether by His own volition, or for destiny to choose for Him.

 

Fated. To die, to be reborn, to take a new form, they were all fated. A decade, a century, a millennium.

 

They would all be judged the same, sentenced the same, and executed the same.

 

Except.

 

 

 

a life abundant of death, fated for one to be my own

battlefields notorious of a horror, darkness to covet abominations

the thrill of a victory faded quickly. replacing it, an ugliness

deeply rooted in the very soul of my own being

 

 

 

 

 

 

when fire refused to burn, the darkness took form

 

 

 

Edited June 24, 2024 by madnorth

[satin 7600]

Spoiler

excellently written post

 

[NLThomas 1225]

Love the post but I beg of you to make the black text some other color. Those words are impossible to read without selecting. 

[don dada 579]

On 5/22/2024 at 10:07 PM, NLThomas said:

Love the post but I beg of you to make the black text some other color. Those words are impossible to read without selecting. 

 

was taken into account for most of the next part, was not aware. thank you!

Edited May 24, 2024 by baby