09-08-2019, 11:02 PM
i heard you were looking like the moon — tags
He has not moved so much the past couple of days. Perhaps it was something to cause concern - the boy would wander around most days within the swamp, taking in the new sights and lessons from the world that is still so foreign to him. But, ever since arriving back with Wormwood, he's found his mind wandering elsewhere. He quietly lays in his clearing, puddles all around him in the damp marsh, resting upon a rock.
There is one thing he has wanted to learn more than anything so far, and that was, simply, to realize how to control his fire.
It was the source of many of his problems now. It was what held him back, kept him chained, continued to label him as a weapon. He did not want to hurt anyone. He did not want that to be his purpose. He thought they had escaped. He thought they were free now. But, no. He was not truly free. If he were to go out and see the world farther, there is always the chance he will hurt someone, or someone's friend, or burn something. The forest is off-limits less he risk taking it down entirely. No one may touch him. No one may even come near him. And it hurt. Oh, how it hurt when it got bad.
As long as he burns, he is trapped.
He must find a way to end it. He should not be on fire like this all the time, surely. Certainly, there must be a way to fix it. He knows it fluctuates. He's witnessed it rise and fall, like breathing, and then he's moved it, too; focused it to other areas of his body, and even pushed it away from his body, instead having it surround him like a shield. There has to be a way for him to control it. He's trained it before. For years. He may not be there anymore, but it can't be so different. There needs to be a way to figure it out.
It would seem these past few days have been productive. He's sat to himself, almost meditating in a sense. The voices were quiet. The memories were silenced. Instead, he kept his focus to his surroundings. To this world he is still getting used to. To this world he still has yet to see so much of. The flames have lowered and lowered, at times fluctuating, but certainly progressing in the direction he wishes. Ease had wrapped over the boy in a way he's never quite experienced. If only the heat would subside entirely.
If he could do this, maybe he could be a real member of Tanglewood, and he could make real friends, and he could be a son Wormwood would like him to be. Maybe he wouldn't ever be used again. Maybe he'd never even have to think of himself as a weapon again.
Though, it likely wasn't as simple as that. Wishful thinking. It was how they survived all those years before. It was how he still believed everyone is capable of good, despite everything. Maybe this is a sign, too, that maybe, just maybe, Roy is just as much a part of that everyone as anybody else. There had to be good.
It is cloudy. Night would soon fall over the territory of Tanglewood, and Roy has thought more positively, more calmly, than perhaps he ever has in his entire life. No bad dreams or haunting memories or voices to whisper their disapproval. Just the world around him, and a simple goal, with the results he could have with achieving it. He feels a slight breeze, glowing orange eyes peering around him quietly as he feels a sudden drop of water hit his nose. The tiger peers upward, more drops joining in until it was a party of water. Rain. It hits his fur slightly cold, and his tail wraps closer to his body. He closes his eyes slowly, feeling the liquid against his body.
It slices into what is left of his fires, and soon, any heat that had protruded from him, went away entirely. He opens his eyes, lifting his head slowly as he looks over himself. There was no fire. There was nothing at all. Just him.
Patches of missing fur are scattered across his tattered, wet skeletal-looking pelt. Scratches and signs of burns sit randomly through his body.
The fires are gone.
He simply peers to himself. Just him.
There is one thing he has wanted to learn more than anything so far, and that was, simply, to realize how to control his fire.
It was the source of many of his problems now. It was what held him back, kept him chained, continued to label him as a weapon. He did not want to hurt anyone. He did not want that to be his purpose. He thought they had escaped. He thought they were free now. But, no. He was not truly free. If he were to go out and see the world farther, there is always the chance he will hurt someone, or someone's friend, or burn something. The forest is off-limits less he risk taking it down entirely. No one may touch him. No one may even come near him. And it hurt. Oh, how it hurt when it got bad.
As long as he burns, he is trapped.
He must find a way to end it. He should not be on fire like this all the time, surely. Certainly, there must be a way to fix it. He knows it fluctuates. He's witnessed it rise and fall, like breathing, and then he's moved it, too; focused it to other areas of his body, and even pushed it away from his body, instead having it surround him like a shield. There has to be a way for him to control it. He's trained it before. For years. He may not be there anymore, but it can't be so different. There needs to be a way to figure it out.
It would seem these past few days have been productive. He's sat to himself, almost meditating in a sense. The voices were quiet. The memories were silenced. Instead, he kept his focus to his surroundings. To this world he is still getting used to. To this world he still has yet to see so much of. The flames have lowered and lowered, at times fluctuating, but certainly progressing in the direction he wishes. Ease had wrapped over the boy in a way he's never quite experienced. If only the heat would subside entirely.
If he could do this, maybe he could be a real member of Tanglewood, and he could make real friends, and he could be a son Wormwood would like him to be. Maybe he wouldn't ever be used again. Maybe he'd never even have to think of himself as a weapon again.
Though, it likely wasn't as simple as that. Wishful thinking. It was how they survived all those years before. It was how he still believed everyone is capable of good, despite everything. Maybe this is a sign, too, that maybe, just maybe, Roy is just as much a part of that everyone as anybody else. There had to be good.
It is cloudy. Night would soon fall over the territory of Tanglewood, and Roy has thought more positively, more calmly, than perhaps he ever has in his entire life. No bad dreams or haunting memories or voices to whisper their disapproval. Just the world around him, and a simple goal, with the results he could have with achieving it. He feels a slight breeze, glowing orange eyes peering around him quietly as he feels a sudden drop of water hit his nose. The tiger peers upward, more drops joining in until it was a party of water. Rain. It hits his fur slightly cold, and his tail wraps closer to his body. He closes his eyes slowly, feeling the liquid against his body.
It slices into what is left of his fires, and soon, any heat that had protruded from him, went away entirely. He opens his eyes, lifting his head slowly as he looks over himself. There was no fire. There was nothing at all. Just him.
Patches of missing fur are scattered across his tattered, wet skeletal-looking pelt. Scratches and signs of burns sit randomly through his body.
The fires are gone.
He simply peers to himself. Just him.
[div style="width: 70%;font-family: georgia;font-size: 14px;color: #hexcode;line-height:110%;text-align: center;;"]he / him — characters — premades — open to pm
![[Image: EDRc2RM.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/EDRc2RM.gif)
