Colors | A Pov Post

[Based1Salmon 758]

 

 

[!] This is a POV post, only to show character development and is not known in roleplay unless explicitly told or you were there.

 

[!] The Candles. 

 

 Gold were the first 2 candles the Rovare saw before him, and one of Black.

 

One had found him when he still loved the world, and had given him a Rose.

One had found him in time to make him hate the world, and had made the rose wilt away. 

One had found him with the bitter taste of regret, and left as soon as they came.

 

The aging lord sat in his study, surrounded by relics, reminders, and regrets. As he wrote a cast aside parchment detailed a failed letter to the rose that would become the fourth candle should lady luck grow jealous once more. Was 3 enough? Or would the cold overtaking the world overtake him as well? Or would his daughter?

 

A rose of gold, stained red by the broken glass. 

 

The ground rumbled, shaking the very foundations of the Castle Oakenwald - the strained chains of a delicate crystal chandelier snapping taut, a roaring whistle sounding as it came hurtling down from above.

 

Crash, crack, splinter.

 

The table broke into pieces, crystal and wood having flown out. His daughter, the first thought, as he dove across the table, he sheltered this girl but he could not shelter the first, both with hair of spun gold and eyes like his. 

 

The rose of gold, still yet to bloom, sheltered his son, his heir, the child not yet ready for the sad lessons his father had to teach. As she sheltered his son, the lord sheltered his daughter, he felt like the scribe once more. 

 

She cried as her brother bandaged the wounds, and he held the daughter he could still hold. But he would never forget the one he had lost. All the while, the rose stood to the side. 

 

 

---

 

Blue were the next candles, still of 3, and as the Lord beheld them his felt as the Scribe once again, for what was the power of the Lord if they could do naught, but read.

The First, was dry, smelling of parchment, and the tears of regret. The death of a son who never bore his name, who had left, but had never come home. And so the Scribe said to the Lord, where is my Son, Lord?

 

The Second, was new, smelling of spring blossoms, that would never see summer. The death that came not as a surprise, but as a crushing of hope. The Sins of the Father, the Burden of the Son. For the Father came the arrow and for the Son the sword. The Scribe could save neither, and the Lord had built the pyre.

 

The Third, was cold, smelling of steel, and the blood that stained it. Neither Scribe nor Lord presided over this judgement, for the Soldier was responsible for this judgement, but the Lord was not free of blame. This candle was neither the Sins of Father, nor Son, but of Pride, and the Burden of Duty, which weighed as a mountain. 

 

And then sometime more later, the Scribe sat covered in the blood of patients, his daughter, a stranger, a son, and others beyond count. Arrows and glass tore skin all the same, and blood stained the Scribe’s hands, who drank until the Lord bore the weight once more. 

 

A Summons?

A Condemnation?

A Missive. 

 

A Piece of Parchment. Though 3 Candles stood on his desk, accusing him, demanding his notice.
A Piece of Parchment. Condemned his family to the life he once led. 

A Piece of Parchment. The Soldier grinned, the Scribe wept, and the Lord was silent. 

 

 

---

 

Silver were the last candles, of 3, as bad things always came in 3’s. The Scribe wrote, the Soldier cackled, and the Lord wondered if the next set of 3 would be pyres. 

 

His sons of 3 called to war. He worried for Elias, not for his death, but for the Soldier driving him to the life of the Father. He worried for Lucien, who despite his name was to live the life of the Scribe. He wept for Adonis, who in his heart was the Scribe, but he must be broken into the Lord, lest he be swept up under the tide of what was to come. 

 

Peter Grayson Rovare sat in his chair. Surrounded by relics of his past. Regret seeping into his bones. A Reminder of his family’s fate, in ink before him. His heart was broken as he uttered words, but his voice rooted in Oak, “let not my sons suffer my fate…”