Post by Joscelin on Nov 16, 2009 13:24:28 GMT -5
"...Can a man be brave if he's afraid...?"
The familiar words are turned over within his mind time and again. They had been his words once upon a time ago, but that had been such a far time back that even he could hardly recall such to the forefront of his mind. Yet, he still remembers the scent of wet wood and ash. He could still recall the sound of the uproar of distress within the streets of Elysium proper, and even the warmth of the hearth fire, and yet, the chill of a cold shiver running down the length of his spine. He could still recall a man's face looming close to his own as sheets were tucked beneath his chin, and a smile greets him warmly with play dancing within his eyes.
"That is the only time a man can be brave."
Had he been brave upon the very steps of Elysium's Palace? Joscelin could only wonder when looking upon such from afar. They gleam even within the light of the moon. They shimmer as they always have. Now, they stand out with the Celebration of Life with carriages drifting along the drive where smartly-dressed servants await drivers and assist nobility toward the foyer of the palace proper.
He had died that afternoon where the sun caught fairly within the eyes of many, and made those steps gleam the way they had made their fresh-face Empress' almond shaped eyes do much the same. She had been young then. He had been young. His eyes had been witness to the slaughter of the people; the lifeblood of the city attempting to scramble along those steps. It had been the time Joscelin had been witness to true bravery as his father had swept the Empress upward and roared at her to fly with the wind at her heels. He had fought tooth and nail against the people who loved him so dearly within the district of Dysprosium. They had killed him for his noble act with stones bashing down with vigor upon that upturned face of his until his head was colliding with the steps, and still they swarmed.
Joscelin could still recall how sore his throat had been when he had screamed over the din. "Father!" He still recall the tears stinging his eyes and the fervor rippling throughout his body only to grip him by the throat. He could recall the feeling of hands and arms around his body and the hushed tones uttered sharply over his head: "take the boy home, now!" He still recalls meeting Camille's eyes over the heads of many, and the blades and smoke; he could still recall looking at her and watching her with fear throttling her as the men of Dysprosium - the very men her council had wronged - snarling like the Devil's dogs at her heels.
"He knew he'd die that day," Joscelin murmurs more to himself than Marcus who stood nearby with his thick fingers stroking beneath the rim of his Fisherman's cap. His eyes seem small within his broad face; mayhap the wine could be blamed. He stares past the nigh chest high battlements of the walkway to peer upon the Palace's fore where royalty and nobility were now arriving still.
"They look to me with hope within their eyes, Marcus. They look to me like I'm someone who had been gifted unto them to lead them to salvation. Yet, they forget that I'm but a man who suffered as much as any of them. They forget that I bleed the way any other does," he says and looks over his shoulder to Marcus; his chin nestling against the curve of his arms upon that high wall.
"His history was the living sort; writ within blood and not ink. Sometimes I wonder whether or not the same would be for me," he confesses and Marcus seems nigh taken aback. "Sirruh, I don't think yours will be of such..." He trails and Joscelin's quiet all the while. "Why don't you go back down, Marcus?" Joscelin questions and Marcus reluctantly, and quietly so, agrees. He clicks his shoes smartly before retreating from the rooftop of Joscelin's castle; Emperor Tiberius' old temple and resting place. Now, Joscelin was alone; lingering there with his eyes espying the palace from afar from his own homestead of sorts.
His fingers smooth over the line of his face gently before smoothing to loosen the button at his collar. He bares his throat and part of his chest to the cool air of the night before smoothing fingertips over the curve of his neck. His eyes flit to that half-empty glass of wine settled there at his right.
The hope of the people. The Prince of Dysprosium; the man they wish to lead them. If only they knew that he was but like them and nothing of some man who could promise salvation. Except, here he stands quietly whilst the temple beneath his very feet trembles with the event of life.
The familiar words are turned over within his mind time and again. They had been his words once upon a time ago, but that had been such a far time back that even he could hardly recall such to the forefront of his mind. Yet, he still remembers the scent of wet wood and ash. He could still recall the sound of the uproar of distress within the streets of Elysium proper, and even the warmth of the hearth fire, and yet, the chill of a cold shiver running down the length of his spine. He could still recall a man's face looming close to his own as sheets were tucked beneath his chin, and a smile greets him warmly with play dancing within his eyes.
"That is the only time a man can be brave."
Had he been brave upon the very steps of Elysium's Palace? Joscelin could only wonder when looking upon such from afar. They gleam even within the light of the moon. They shimmer as they always have. Now, they stand out with the Celebration of Life with carriages drifting along the drive where smartly-dressed servants await drivers and assist nobility toward the foyer of the palace proper.
He had died that afternoon where the sun caught fairly within the eyes of many, and made those steps gleam the way they had made their fresh-face Empress' almond shaped eyes do much the same. She had been young then. He had been young. His eyes had been witness to the slaughter of the people; the lifeblood of the city attempting to scramble along those steps. It had been the time Joscelin had been witness to true bravery as his father had swept the Empress upward and roared at her to fly with the wind at her heels. He had fought tooth and nail against the people who loved him so dearly within the district of Dysprosium. They had killed him for his noble act with stones bashing down with vigor upon that upturned face of his until his head was colliding with the steps, and still they swarmed.
Joscelin could still recall how sore his throat had been when he had screamed over the din. "Father!" He still recall the tears stinging his eyes and the fervor rippling throughout his body only to grip him by the throat. He could recall the feeling of hands and arms around his body and the hushed tones uttered sharply over his head: "take the boy home, now!" He still recalls meeting Camille's eyes over the heads of many, and the blades and smoke; he could still recall looking at her and watching her with fear throttling her as the men of Dysprosium - the very men her council had wronged - snarling like the Devil's dogs at her heels.
"He knew he'd die that day," Joscelin murmurs more to himself than Marcus who stood nearby with his thick fingers stroking beneath the rim of his Fisherman's cap. His eyes seem small within his broad face; mayhap the wine could be blamed. He stares past the nigh chest high battlements of the walkway to peer upon the Palace's fore where royalty and nobility were now arriving still.
"They look to me with hope within their eyes, Marcus. They look to me like I'm someone who had been gifted unto them to lead them to salvation. Yet, they forget that I'm but a man who suffered as much as any of them. They forget that I bleed the way any other does," he says and looks over his shoulder to Marcus; his chin nestling against the curve of his arms upon that high wall.
"His history was the living sort; writ within blood and not ink. Sometimes I wonder whether or not the same would be for me," he confesses and Marcus seems nigh taken aback. "Sirruh, I don't think yours will be of such..." He trails and Joscelin's quiet all the while. "Why don't you go back down, Marcus?" Joscelin questions and Marcus reluctantly, and quietly so, agrees. He clicks his shoes smartly before retreating from the rooftop of Joscelin's castle; Emperor Tiberius' old temple and resting place. Now, Joscelin was alone; lingering there with his eyes espying the palace from afar from his own homestead of sorts.
His fingers smooth over the line of his face gently before smoothing to loosen the button at his collar. He bares his throat and part of his chest to the cool air of the night before smoothing fingertips over the curve of his neck. His eyes flit to that half-empty glass of wine settled there at his right.
The hope of the people. The Prince of Dysprosium; the man they wish to lead them. If only they knew that he was but like them and nothing of some man who could promise salvation. Except, here he stands quietly whilst the temple beneath his very feet trembles with the event of life.
