Temper

Warning: if you’re on a phone, the Wingdings font will not show. Also, trigger warnings for possibly disturbling graphic imagery, immortality, death, resurrection, dehumanization


Rose petals withered on their stems and thorns, wilting and shriveling and dying because you can't bring back the dead, you know.

(Temper, temper.)

He crushed the dead petals between red-runed claws, shook out the mush on his trembling talons. There's no use in regretting, he reminded himself.

This was the life he lived.

This is your life, now.

-

Black feathers and rose petals and dancing, dancing, admist the decay.

-love is a battlefield and a battle is a work of art called hate-hell-hope-we-can--be---

His wings touch death around him, his eyes glitter bejeweled with tears behind glass and agony, his runes glitter on the underside of his belly. They flash off his claws, blaze crimson as they're enhanced by blood and broken brilliance.

Aren't you evil?

(We all are.)

-

He soars; he flies, he falls.

Then he dies.

Again and again and again, claws rip him open, bloody wounds bleed dry, fatal wounds drip and still and scab over. And he wakes up again, gasps a new breath and feels his eyes flutter open, feels his runes burn hot crimson admist his scales and feathers.

(So he bound you to this plane?)

Death doesn't want those like me.

The curse glitters in a flowing script, blisteringly hot against his soul. Tying him to this earth, from where death steals away and falls like a entombing shadow.

All he wants is to sleep.

-

”by the will of all those holy who rule thee grim, thy shall never be taken before the gated thrones of either heaven or hell; judgement shall not pass until thy spell is lifted and thy words of power relinquished to past memory.”

translation: ”by the will of all those holy who rule thee grim, thy shall never be taken before the gated thrones of either heaven or hell; judgement shall not pass until thy spell is lifted and thy words of power relinquished to past memory.”

-

Temper.

He runs a glowing claw down a glowing line of red script seared into his side, the words indecipherable to any mortal gaze. He himself can't read it, but he doesn't have to.

(I know what you are.)

-

The legends tell of a monster. You may stab it through the heart, tear it to bloody pieces and rip it open a hundred times; and yet it will not die.

It, not he. Because that is what Temper has Become.