Post by Sansa Stark on Aug 3, 2014 23:41:43 GMT -6
In the face of the sun, he would find peace.
The majesty of turbulent waves shattered against jutting rock and crevice, splitting into endless apendages that spread like fingers of foam from the sapphire sea beyond. A lion’s violent roar ripped through the muggy air in place of a soothing oceanic cacophony the young boy was so terribly fond of in his more recent youth, mocking his desires, his need for a small moment’s joyous relief. Palettes of tangerine, coral and goldenrod were painted on a canvas sky like the elegance of romantic joy so contrary to the task at hand, and Christopher wondered if the gods were gifting him with a final glimpse of home or dangling some pseudoaddictive taste of fond memories before his eyes. It would be so sweet, he thought, to reach out towards the fiery oblivion and grasp the flames in rugged hands, a slave’s hands, and cast his fire upon a world that wronged him. The ring of bullets over his head did not deter such thoughts, nor change them into something more rational linked to the insatiable instinct to survive. Justice is survival. As a thirteen-year-old boy, Christopher Kenway came to such a realization as palace guards gave chase with murder in their hearts.
In the face of the sun, he would find his peace.
The shouts of threatening men grew louder, gaining over the crescendo of the ocean and the boy realized his life was an hourglass running out of sand. Teetering on the peak of a precipice that stood over a hundred feet from the surface of the water, he felt a rush of dangerous adrenaline pumping through his still-beating heart knowing that a single move could mean life or death. His fate rested in a step. Was life so fickle and fragile, so valueless? He turned towards the glittering castle of Caister that shone like heaven bathed in sunlight against a rose-colored sky, beautiful to most, a house of horros to others. Others like him. To run was to defy the crown, defy his friend, defy the only life he’d ever known, cast away in search of something grander. To run was to die. But as he stood atop the crag above the sea he felt his decision painfully finalize with the bursts of the sun, etched in the rock he placed his feet on. The wind couldn’t seeme to decide which way to encourage him, nor the angle of the earth an inkling as to what he should do. Even nature had abandoned him to his decision.
He turned towards the setting sun and watched it slowly begin to dip below the horizon, knowing the process was nearly complete. Minutes at maximum, and the orb of light and hope and prosperity would sink away to brighten some other corner of the world and plunge him into total darkness. The boy’s fate would be his only company, whether in a jail cell or on the banks of an island off the eastern coast. Could he swim that far? Would he be chased? Would the king consider it a worty pursuit to go after a teenage boy with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and the scars underneath them? Slavery had done him no justice and given no mercies, yet somehow the choice was difficult to make despite the crippled heart that thumped in his chest.
In the end, it made no matter. The sea extended her arms and he leapt to her gracious greeting, falling through the air with his arms spread like an eagle’s wings, and he dove towards tumbling waves of opportunity and future.
The sun disappeared behind crystal waters, and in the face of it he would find his peace.
The majesty of turbulent waves shattered against jutting rock and crevice, splitting into endless apendages that spread like fingers of foam from the sapphire sea beyond. A lion’s violent roar ripped through the muggy air in place of a soothing oceanic cacophony the young boy was so terribly fond of in his more recent youth, mocking his desires, his need for a small moment’s joyous relief. Palettes of tangerine, coral and goldenrod were painted on a canvas sky like the elegance of romantic joy so contrary to the task at hand, and Christopher wondered if the gods were gifting him with a final glimpse of home or dangling some pseudoaddictive taste of fond memories before his eyes. It would be so sweet, he thought, to reach out towards the fiery oblivion and grasp the flames in rugged hands, a slave’s hands, and cast his fire upon a world that wronged him. The ring of bullets over his head did not deter such thoughts, nor change them into something more rational linked to the insatiable instinct to survive. Justice is survival. As a thirteen-year-old boy, Christopher Kenway came to such a realization as palace guards gave chase with murder in their hearts.
In the face of the sun, he would find his peace.
The shouts of threatening men grew louder, gaining over the crescendo of the ocean and the boy realized his life was an hourglass running out of sand. Teetering on the peak of a precipice that stood over a hundred feet from the surface of the water, he felt a rush of dangerous adrenaline pumping through his still-beating heart knowing that a single move could mean life or death. His fate rested in a step. Was life so fickle and fragile, so valueless? He turned towards the glittering castle of Caister that shone like heaven bathed in sunlight against a rose-colored sky, beautiful to most, a house of horros to others. Others like him. To run was to defy the crown, defy his friend, defy the only life he’d ever known, cast away in search of something grander. To run was to die. But as he stood atop the crag above the sea he felt his decision painfully finalize with the bursts of the sun, etched in the rock he placed his feet on. The wind couldn’t seeme to decide which way to encourage him, nor the angle of the earth an inkling as to what he should do. Even nature had abandoned him to his decision.
He turned towards the setting sun and watched it slowly begin to dip below the horizon, knowing the process was nearly complete. Minutes at maximum, and the orb of light and hope and prosperity would sink away to brighten some other corner of the world and plunge him into total darkness. The boy’s fate would be his only company, whether in a jail cell or on the banks of an island off the eastern coast. Could he swim that far? Would he be chased? Would the king consider it a worty pursuit to go after a teenage boy with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and the scars underneath them? Slavery had done him no justice and given no mercies, yet somehow the choice was difficult to make despite the crippled heart that thumped in his chest.
In the end, it made no matter. The sea extended her arms and he leapt to her gracious greeting, falling through the air with his arms spread like an eagle’s wings, and he dove towards tumbling waves of opportunity and future.
The sun disappeared behind crystal waters, and in the face of it he would find his peace.
yaaaaay Clint bears <3