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[kiss prompt] shiro-4/mithrax - cheek
Upon a throne in the Ascendant Realm, Skolas the Rabid, Kell of Kells, lounges before Mithrax. His four heavy limbs drape over the arm rests, a leg over one of them. The dark stars curve around him, bending their light as if to accommodate his brilliance.
Mithrax, vaguely, feels like he has been in this position before, feeling small, two arms less, Dreg-like. He has never had the honor of meeting Skolas. He’d been too insignificant at the time, beneath Skolas’ judgement.
But Mithrax remembers staring after Skolas from a distance, remembers the might of the Kell of Kells. His ambition, his ruthlessness, his power.
Mithrax remembers he had admired Skolas’ strength once. And maybe he still does.
As if sensing his thoughts, Skolas stands from his seat — and oh, now Mithrax feels this keenly, seeing him tall with an air of utter viciousness and grace. He takes a step towards Mithrax, puddles of stars in his wake. “Wolf-born! So you seek to follow my path?”
Mithrax does not flinch back. He does not. He knows he is different.
“You seek to unite the Eliksni. I, too, sought after the same, to have our people come out from the shadow, and live freely with the stars. Pride had been my downfall. What will be yours?”
Skolas had been born ready-Kell. Mithrax still claws on his hands and legs to earn the graces of his supporters, his allies, his subordinates, and friends. Pride will not be his downfall.
His eyes must blaze with it. Skolas laughs, and there is a note — there is a note of genuine satisfaction. It reminds Mithrax of the look his mother gives him.
Pride might have been Skolas’ weakness, but it had been his strength as well. Mithrax cannot fault him for that.
Skolas’ hand touches Mithrax’s face, cold like ether, and it tastes of power beyond it. The void shimmers around them.
“What are you proud of? What keeps you brave?” Skolas’s voice roars, echoing and ethereal.
Perhaps, in another life, Mithrax would have risen up the ranks of the Wolves, would have been granted an audience in front of Skolas to prove his worth to the Kell of Kells.
Skolas holds out a gift for him. A prize, in the shape of a knife. It would have been a high honor. The knife’s blade reflects distant stars, dying slow.
“Would you be the next Kell of Kells? I would wish you nothing but victory.”
Mithrax draws back from Skolas’ touch, gentle until the image of Skolas shatters like glass and the edges of his silhouette bleeds out like smoke.
Shiro-4’s knife of crackling Arc is through the Kell’s throat. The Taken Blight around them pops like a bubble in reverse. The stars sink within themselves and disappear, leaving nothing but darkness and Mithrax’s eyes stinging with the bright yellow of Shiro’s cloak.
Shiro yanks Mithrax’s rebreather off, cutting him from ether. Hot air rushes in his mouth, the absence of the cold vapors making him choke. He sucks in a breath of air, empty and devoid of power.
“If you think I’m gonna let another Kell of Kells start running around again, if you think I’ll let you become another Skolas—” Shiro snarls, pressing in, dragging Mithrax down by the cape so that they are cheek to cheek for a moment, before Shiro’s mouth is there, “—I’ll kill you first.”
Mithrax shivers, Taken energy slipping from him like viscous oil. His knees want to buckle, but Shiro hauls him upright.
“Stand up, Misraaks,” Shiro says, his voice no less intense, but its goes softer for Mithrax’s ears only. He presses his mouth to Mithrax’s cheek. ”You aren’t Kell of Kells, you are the Kell of House Light.”
Mithrax, vaguely, feels like he has been in this position before, feeling small, two arms less, Dreg-like. He has never had the honor of meeting Skolas. He’d been too insignificant at the time, beneath Skolas’ judgement.
But Mithrax remembers staring after Skolas from a distance, remembers the might of the Kell of Kells. His ambition, his ruthlessness, his power.
Mithrax remembers he had admired Skolas’ strength once. And maybe he still does.
As if sensing his thoughts, Skolas stands from his seat — and oh, now Mithrax feels this keenly, seeing him tall with an air of utter viciousness and grace. He takes a step towards Mithrax, puddles of stars in his wake. “Wolf-born! So you seek to follow my path?”
Mithrax does not flinch back. He does not. He knows he is different.
“You seek to unite the Eliksni. I, too, sought after the same, to have our people come out from the shadow, and live freely with the stars. Pride had been my downfall. What will be yours?”
Skolas had been born ready-Kell. Mithrax still claws on his hands and legs to earn the graces of his supporters, his allies, his subordinates, and friends. Pride will not be his downfall.
His eyes must blaze with it. Skolas laughs, and there is a note — there is a note of genuine satisfaction. It reminds Mithrax of the look his mother gives him.
Pride might have been Skolas’ weakness, but it had been his strength as well. Mithrax cannot fault him for that.
Skolas’ hand touches Mithrax’s face, cold like ether, and it tastes of power beyond it. The void shimmers around them.
“What are you proud of? What keeps you brave?” Skolas’s voice roars, echoing and ethereal.
Perhaps, in another life, Mithrax would have risen up the ranks of the Wolves, would have been granted an audience in front of Skolas to prove his worth to the Kell of Kells.
Skolas holds out a gift for him. A prize, in the shape of a knife. It would have been a high honor. The knife’s blade reflects distant stars, dying slow.
“Would you be the next Kell of Kells? I would wish you nothing but victory.”
Mithrax draws back from Skolas’ touch, gentle until the image of Skolas shatters like glass and the edges of his silhouette bleeds out like smoke.
Shiro-4’s knife of crackling Arc is through the Kell’s throat. The Taken Blight around them pops like a bubble in reverse. The stars sink within themselves and disappear, leaving nothing but darkness and Mithrax’s eyes stinging with the bright yellow of Shiro’s cloak.
Shiro yanks Mithrax’s rebreather off, cutting him from ether. Hot air rushes in his mouth, the absence of the cold vapors making him choke. He sucks in a breath of air, empty and devoid of power.
“If you think I’m gonna let another Kell of Kells start running around again, if you think I’ll let you become another Skolas—” Shiro snarls, pressing in, dragging Mithrax down by the cape so that they are cheek to cheek for a moment, before Shiro’s mouth is there, “—I’ll kill you first.”
Mithrax shivers, Taken energy slipping from him like viscous oil. His knees want to buckle, but Shiro hauls him upright.
“Stand up, Misraaks,” Shiro says, his voice no less intense, but its goes softer for Mithrax’s ears only. He presses his mouth to Mithrax’s cheek. ”You aren’t Kell of Kells, you are the Kell of House Light.”