| Subject: .the hollow chocolate bunny awakes. |
Author:
Khastin
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Date Posted: 21:33:44 04/11/03 Fri
He speaks of love with one breath...and slaughters his own thought with the next. Who he becomes when he leaves another is a mystery....and a secret the sage wish not to know. Hours pass as minutes when he is to be locked in the splendor of his own strange, yet familiar grasp with the timely world. The wolf is digressing... A stranger is sleeping beyond his quiet lips; for the sage can taste his despair... Who are you, my love? Intertwined as seraphim descending from oblivion, we are.
The lupine was doomed to an untimely demise. And many angels stood to carry his weight; but one auriferous light shone through the promised arbors, reaching to the wolf.
And what a burden to bare it is, the weight of fate upon silken shoulders, without an imperial strength nor certain hope to lighten the load. These members have held him so precariously, so delicately despite the rural journey.
Now that he has returned, doubts have been placed upon the King. Not Evil enough, they say. Not malicious enough. For them, they say. But the king has his reasons.
And my intentions with you are good fair one, to send you into this harsh, dark world. He could do so much more than hurt another...the King could destroy any idea of happiness with a few choice words, and without hesitation he would do so...if not for the beating of a heart which betrays thee. The puppeteer about this Khastin could make thine's days too long to endure. Gray would be his landscape, and fretful dreams, your prison.
Now you don’t want such harsh circumstances placed upon thee, do you? Or do you enjoy the slack sanctuary, the turned-down Dominion that you have come to know your home.
He could slay you with the truth...for the truth is what Khastin knows the most. He is the true. The Orchrist. The Orisis. He is and will remain the dutiful sage of these lands, carrying on a legacy that his ancestors could not. But they know not of him here, now. It will happen, when his past is uncloaked as an artwork, the lush velvet drapings whipped off in pleasure, revealing the vulnerable surges of the truth. For the truth hurts the most. And the pain that his agony could bring another? The thoughts alone are comparable to having nails driven into thine's very flesh. Those see him as hard as uncaring, a false front atop a metaphorical “hollow chocolate rabbit.” But yes, he can feel. He has shed tears for others; dark does not inhibit emotion, meerely spites it. He has ached for another. And endeavored to dream because another cannot.
And he does now. He pines for another. Against the will of others he has been taken untimely by another. His heart no longer his.
So, my fair Khastin, it is time to set you free, unprotected from the dark with the weight of the fallen upon your shoulders. Such a heavy weight to bear; but I have faith in you. You may pick your own battles now, fair King. Your choices are not mine to puppet as such; you are your own being.
With these ponderances dashing through the allegorical mindset, the King began to flutter silver eyelids. As a youth, he has been seen as the auriferous one, as if the blood boiling in his very veins ran as white as his coat. Shall he be shunned by the "evils" because his coat is not dull and black, nor slashed with blood and battle scars as trophies? Nay. Let them think; the King can hold his own. Large for his mediocre wizardry, he was; towering at the shoulder with bunched muscles and broad paws well-trodden. A pelt, undulating in foaming ripples, hoary luminence standing toe in comparison to the moon. A broad, intelligent head concealed his deep eyes, now beginning to drag alive from slumber. Oh, the eyes of the King were one of another. Inhuman; perhaps the only thing separating him from what was the mortal wolf world. So deep and profound, pondering in all their artic dimensions, revelating as the angels weep upon the bloodstained reveries at a tearshed from them. They are awe themselves, packaged beneath a glassy appeareance. How they tell the tale that his voice chooses to not. His soul is hoary; worn, it can be reverberated off of him as heat; souls travel, you know.
Scary thought.
A roll upon the side, and on stocky stature the wolf did stand; he was alive, healed, and well.
The King must live an eternity of secluded thoughts and greyscale dimensions. Beggining to view the shrouding of night's shade as the death of day, our contradictory despised that. But silently he did so. Night became a prison, and he, a prisoner. Dreams became as demons amongst a world that damned the King's desires, hopes, and a heart which danced to the melody of its forbidden love.
The forbidden love he wished for, a one to end these nightmares spoken yet of. He wished for that single female, with that childish re-assurance. Everything’s gonna be alright. He needed someone to say that for him, when it has worn out his welcome parting his own lips.
He was fatherly; wise, direct and demanding, but an underhand knowledge kept him withered and forebeared, as if strapped down; held back.
Although all the descriptions portray the sage as old and withered, that is not the case. Perhaps his soul is, but his body certainly is not. A fine, articulate face, etched and chiseled. Michelangelo. Raphael. DaVinci. The three of the Divine could not have sculpted from a medium of their choice something of this handsomeness. Though the lupine bore a resemblence to a marble etching indeed, with a Pieta glare he remained ever solemn; ever macabre. A utopian frame seemed cast and set, and yet; there had never been such a form. And there perhaps never will be.
But how we drag on so mordantly! We musn't forget his qualities. The allegory about him was esquisite; perhaps too extreme so in being the reason why he had been shunned. The reveries sang in his prescence, but not in the gospel. It was his downfall, the morbid weaping as harpsichords strung and snapped with screetches of bows. A hell's song, of sorts. He is accompanied with a harpies lullaby with each step; serenaded to the Sirens as he slept.
Lucky guy. And he seems so happy, huh?
Then perhaps with these circumstances we should be thankful that the mindset of the King is still in tact, and maybe this is why he keeps so introverted. The outside kills him; inner insanity can keep him alive. His insecurites are better buried deep within, letting him muttle his own thoughts instead of pouring them on others. Consiquentally, this same quality gives others enough odd reassurance to give up an inner emotion with such dexterous sincerity he has no choice but to sympathise and solve.
He is truely a league of his own; Khastin.
He was a rusted key to his own door; the primary root to his own ancient tree. But the only one that didnt know it was him.
Not speaking a word the prepondering steed stood idly on the hilltop, blinking dazed eyes at the radiance of the new sun, observing with continuity. He needn't make his prescence known. Perhaps if he was wanted; he would be acknowledged. But either suited him just fine.
Except, for one.
One deep in his past, one significant other before the weight of the world's problems was placed upon his silver shoulders, and he watched the land which he ruled divinely with prosper. Those perceptions have lifted as of now, and peace has settled within the valleys of his incessant thoughts. Those deep eyes, those solemn, meandering eyes scanned about the outskirts of the dominion around him, cocking an intelligent neck. Poised in the akward position from a stiff sleep, the lupine stood motionless and imbibed the rippling of the verdancy and the screaming of the hawks as they soared above and beyond in unison; lost in thought.
He talked to you, though you could not hear him. He made promises to you as the moon silently watched...and listened. It was a silent vow, of protection and of acceptance. He should not shatter, corrupt, or distain the lives; well, he could, but why bother? Why place unneeded heartache? And the moon has his vow. Choosing a star from the brightest corner of heaven on the night his injuries had taken upon him, the King gave it thine name. And silently, just as the moon listened, the star thanked thine. And in this morning, though the sun so obviously shown through the willowy arbors, that star still shone. It had then made the face of heaven so fine, that all had been in love with night; ignoring the garrulous sun. That star had dissipated, and re-appeared. And now he watched it float with an ominous presence about the lands he fondly cared upon.
The name of that star was Enchancee.
Khastin
.the hollow chocolate rabbit.
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