He Makes The Stars Shine Brighter [Sting x Reader] || First Book

24 : The Road Ahead, Split Into Two

» edited : 04.21.2017

[a/n]: i still stand by my statement that cobra and jackal are totally hot babes. would just like to put this out there.

((this was written way late into the night it's nearly 1 as i publish this, which may explain the unusual burst of emotional-ness in this chapter))

x x

Their dance continues.

Pirouettes of long, muscular tails; thumps from talons curved beautifully from years of evolution; choirs of throttling roars as the two beasts steadied themselves on invisible threads. All choreographed by indelible centuries of hard-fought battles, experience pinned onto each pale scar, each break on their skin.

They danced, they spun, they rose, they fell in heavy silence. There was only the whistles of encouragement from the greatness of the winds, whistles that placed themselves under the thin membranes of the dragons' wings, urging them higher into the sky.

The ground below shaped itself in accordance to their misfires, their miscalculated strides, to conceal the approaching blaze, to conceal the stray beam. They swallow any stray fireballs, any stray beams, accepting the dirt that crumbles, caves in, spawning craters. They stimulate paths of dark smoke that licks the blueness of the sky, as if it wants to be among them, little by little, they carve their way upwards, past even where the dragons held their exchange, vanishing into the harmless exterior of the clouds.

The dragons were performers, hours of intensive practice seared into each of their flawlessly executed moves. The great winds, silent and observing, were the privileged who provided a pristine ticket in exchange for a seat and time lost to the grace of the performers. The ground were the unlucky masses who couldn't surrender a wad of bills in time, those who couldn't afford such a luxury, but were still honestly passionate, perching upon piles of grime and waste to catch even but a glimpse of the performers.

You wondered where you fit in, among all these giants, giants who've been presented a role from the beginning. Maybe you could be the small, dirty mouse that's been terribly frightened from the cheers and the thumps of limbs against the ceiling of a home made not by his tiny, dirt-flecked paws. The small creature, unnoticed by the ones who have sipped and intoxicated themselves on their purchased amusement, trembles against the angle of a corner, the same corner it settles itself into for the night.

You were nowhere as experienced as the two dragons, and even farther from synchronizing with movements they've executed thousands of times before. You don't have wings that unfurl on command, that leave you suspended in the sky- all you have is the surface of a giant plate of scales and Igneel's steady balance. What you do have are your own set of moves, not as flexible or as appealing as the dragon's, nothing that merits the wind's support, but you perform them anyway; when your missed attacks plow into the earth, it doesn't make a crater or a trail of smoke like the dragons, but the ground startles into a pop, as loose rocks shift in surprise, and a satisfaction burns inside of you.

» time skip

There is no such thing as creatures with the same level of skill. There is always a margin of difference, maybe spanning the wrinkles of one's knuckle, maybe spanning the swallowing presence of a whole ocean, from the light playfulness of the surfacing tides to the dark waters painted the lateness of twilight, where only oddities and monsters flourished.

In this dance, Acnologia proved to be the more superior one. His accuracy was far more practiced than Igneel's, as the Fire Dragon King had remained deep in slumber during the best of Acnologia's years, his claws slid through the spaces between the scales, and his teeth pierced the tender skin unprotected.