Post by Dante on Sept 26, 2013 22:12:23 GMT -5
When you last left me my blood was in a jar
And you kept it on your mantelpiece
I couldn’t count on anyone to stand there behind me
And keep the dogs from dragging me off with them
While I slept you crept in and pulled the rug right out from under me
Then the rain stole away and took the parts that kept me functioning
The scowling prince sat solemnly on the window bench, staring out at the street where raindrops pelted the street. He remained in his true form despite the fact that he might be seen through the window. He watched the tiny droplets of water run clear rivers down the pane of glass. Rain here was different from what he was used to. The rain in his realm was typically blackened as if it had been stained by ink but would be clear if you collected it in your hands as it fell from the sky. Thunder rolled overhead, barely breaking the silence. Shocking blue eyes stared at the humans below, trying to understand their methods of hiding from the rain. Truthfully, the rain didn't bother him and he didn't mind being wet.
He tried to block out thoughts of being home because it just caused pain to swirl in his iced over heart. There was a reason he was known as the ice prince in his court, keeping his emotions locked away and taking no remorse in his actions. He was a terror on the battlefield and a ruthless power in the court. In his father's time, he stood beside the throne, tall and ominous, sword at the ready to cut down those who overstepped in their conversations with the king. As the prince, he obeyed the orders of his father, the dark eyed soulless monarch. Their court was known for being cold, mysterious, secretive, and closed off. Their prince was no exception, letting few see what he was really like behind closed doors.
Dante missed the feel of his sword in hand. One was his father's, carved from blackened bone and stained from many battles. The other was his own, forged from obsidian and his own blood, weighted for him and suited to no one else. He carried it into battle the day his father died and returned with both in hand, a new hardness in his heart. He had been unapproachable for weeks, even Nicholae did not dare disturb his self imposed silence. He had vowed to himself, find those responsible, and kill them all.
My thoughts are the cold kind, I’ve got storm clouds that are brewing behind my eyes
And my heart will be blacker than your eyes when I’m through with you
And my heart will be blacker than your eyes when I’m through with you