Beauty …

I’ve been fighting with one arm behind my back. What happens when I’m finally set free?

@enambris

Alita: Battle Angel - “Doll” Body design by Vitaly Bulgarov

More on RHB_RBS

Bride …

GAME OF THRONES ⇢ 5x01

@enambris

What Could Never Be...

There’s no reprieve in sleep that night..

It was a sweet thing to dance with your wife, holding her hand as the golden glow and warm sun washed over your face. The gentle laughter of Anise was nearby, the warm feeling of belonging and family all that was held around and for once there was nothing dangerous to take it away.

You knew they were all safe, Synne’s brilliant smile and her warm eyes watching you and you could stay here for once, no need to hare off quickly and run away into danger. You’d all survived it, and the bells that rung in your ear were laughter and joy - and sweet, soft love that was no longer strained or fraught with worry.

  Enambris and Derelict, raven and fire red hair, were together in nearby seats, Enambris’ head leaning on Derelict’s shoulder as the shark-grinned man with void-black eyes watched the friendly gathering and held back, into his shadows, without having to be gone entirely. All of them, every last one of them, was safe in the deepest way needed.

It wasn’t fear that made this dream a hard one to part with, but the feeling of the warm light and the contentment and the mute, present, real happiness instead something that held like a lover’s warm embrace.

Like dominoes, the carefully composed psyche begins to topple around the impossible fantasy. Neutrality breaks against a flood of pain… Pain is smothered with fear…  Fear evolves to outrage…and His surroundings become a hurricane… 

Too long had it been since anything had managed to coax the storm out of the man. Most days it was rain, and some days it poured, but in the quieter moments of early dawn, he thunders.  The audacity. He knew now that these dreams were not of his own making. The first had been one of relative discomfort and concern, but this was a step too far. Invading his mind only to show the mournful coyote a life that could never be. To instill in him such hope knowing what could be stripped in a single moment? It was cruel. Hope didn’t exist without pain. He knew that. And someone knew him.

Glass shatters against distant wall as former paperweight, paper, and pens are launched with one tremendous sweep of an arm over nearby secretaires contents, and then desk is reduced to splinters and sawdust too for added measure, obliterated by the Titan’s electric fists as they slam down upon its lacquered surface. The bookshelf gains his ire next, toppled by crackling hands that have in them all the fury and strength of ten gods resting in his fingertips.

Because it wasn’t just the dream he despised but the implications behind it. This fleeting and beautiful moment wasn’t a possibility, not a real one. It was a message, delivered in the form of a dream like wolf in sheep’s clothing..but he understood its message. What was peace for the civilian was but standby for the garrisoned soldier. A threat subtly delivered against all he loved and cared for. To some, it might not seem like much. To him though, It was enough.

There’s a warp of energy in the air surrounding him, Influenced by the intensity of levin conducted in his veins. Leaving all manner of gravitational anomaly and wind distortion to kick up loose paperbacks and detritus in immediate presence, until he’s at the center of his own magnetic cyclone. A gaze of gold and green galaxies are overtaken by an electrical storm, leaving his eyes cobalt as mind finds a place and a purpose.To be. To plot. To plan. 

Try and fucking take them, his challenge to the skies above. He’d be prepared. A single touch from love unafraid calms him, leading the surge to cease as air stales from crackling static and relinquishes what remained  in orbit back to the ground. She would have questions, he was sure. None of which he could answer just then. 

He’d been told once, that after you knew of  all the things that could go wrong, life becomes less about living and more about waiting. So he waits..

And waits…

And waits. 

— Paul Valéry, tr. by Hilary Corke, from The Collected Works; “To The Night,”

EMILIA CLARKE

HARPER’S BAZAAR RUSSIA, FEBRUARY ISSUE

© MATTHEW BROOKES

Emilia Clarke for Clinique

Don’t Rain on my Parade.

“The boy on the blue moon hears a nightmare in his head.”

Calm. 

Stillness. 

Tension.

There was to be no peace. No tranquility. 

He knows this feeling. This fog of war. The boredom. The waiting. The anticipation for enemy lines to follow through. It’s not an if, but a when. You don’t live this many lives not knowing when shit’s about to hit the fan. The storm had arrived without any of them knowing, and now he finds himself in the center of it, looking around to each corner of the sky only to see its horizons darkened. 

A lost soul. The disappointment of humanity. 

How long have you been having the nightmares?

There was no winning. Not in this life, or any other. He knows this in his heart now like he’s always known it. There was only the next fight to look forward to, the next threat to keep at bay and no amount of peace however extensive would ever be sincere. So he separates his heart’s hopeless beating from the careful structure of a steel-trap mind. The two can not work in accordance with so much at stake. 

So much more to protect. 

It was back to numbers and figures.Chance and opportunity. Back to reason. 

These clouds circle him like hungry sharks in the tumultuous waters of his nightmares dreams. Do you see their faces in the fog? 

Trust. Faith. He could have them in his self and his self alone. Maybe one or two others. Too many variables. Risks. Irritations. 

One look to the sky, and his ire for the Beyond is clear in the twist of stoic features to something ferocious.With teeth.

Hello Universe, my old friend. 

Before he had been anything, he’d been a dying star and the dust of that had yet to settle. This would be something else. Something the mortal in him could not handle. So he stifles it down.Hiding away the fragile quality. If the Man in him could not face the war, then he would cease to be that. 

He would be a Titan.