SUNJATA
the flood
but am i too late? or hearts to your spades,
if i don't suit you? then what do you want from me?
if i don't suit you? then what do you want from me?
He’s used to Wessex’s general composure – only seeing it break twice. The first when she’d raged against him for his choice in gods, with the birth of Kamaria and Nate’s departure. The way he was told to choose sides. The second, when he’d given her his dragon shift and went flying, showing her what it was like to drift so far above the world that everyone looked like ants.
What he isn’t used to is seeing her composure start to fracture like this.
Sunjata isn’t Ascended, he still needs to breathe, (breath that hitches, breath that burns), his eyes glued to the Wraith the second the words leave her lips. Ronin got him. “What?” He says, his accent deepening, his words a quiet interjection between the information she dumps, as she sinks down to the rock and Sunjata’s left standing, eyes never leaving her but it’s clear that he isn’t quite there.
It's as if he’s looking through her. He doesn’t know whether he should be trying to comfort her, if he should be chastising himself for not realizing that Ronin would likely be there, chastising himself for knowing that the second the Huntsman arrived that there’d be little to no hope of getting Nate to stop unless one of them went down.
And it was Nate. His Nate. The moon to his sun, the winter to his summer. He swallows, brows pinching. “He’s…” He cuts himself off, jaw clamping shut with an audible click, the muscles feathering in his jaw are the only giveaway that he’s attempting to say something else. It’s a strange, almost unnatural type of click back into place as his gears work, as anger and rage takes over for the sorrow. There’s time for that later. There’s always time for that, later.
Twenty-five years of it and counting, to be exact. “He wouldn’t have left. Not… Not with Ronin there. Not after everything with me.” He shakes his head, works his jaw a second longer, trying to quell himself internally but it’s so incredibly difficult without his attuned shifts slipping out to relieve some of the pressure.
Instead, the dragon inside him rages and roars. “I can’t leave him. I won’t leave him, Wessex. You have to know that.” It’s a statement. Already the plans are moving in his mind, a sitter for his twins, (twins that are going to wonder just why one of their fathers wasn’t coming back for a long time, if ever), but already it feels daunting, to try and face Ronin and Remi after it all, to show up and demand that they give his husband back to him.
Honestly, he’d likely go down trying to get him back if it came down to it. “Fuck!” He curses, needed a way to get out the pent up horror that crawls like ink through his veins. He moves now, finally not a statue as he turns halfway from where Wessex sits on the rock, his lightning scarred hand rising to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, trailing down to pull over his scarred cheek and lips, a sharp exhale. “Gods-fucking-damnit.” He mutters behind his hand, eyes focusing on a rock, something nondescript as he tries to run through his plans. “I’m leaving. I-I have to get him. I have to.” (I have to, i have to, ihaveto, ihaveto.)
He already knows better than to get to Stormbreak as his dragon shift, but he hopes that nobody would be surprised to hear the lightning crackle through the sky in his departure over the barrier.
What he isn’t used to is seeing her composure start to fracture like this.
Sunjata isn’t Ascended, he still needs to breathe, (breath that hitches, breath that burns), his eyes glued to the Wraith the second the words leave her lips. Ronin got him. “What?” He says, his accent deepening, his words a quiet interjection between the information she dumps, as she sinks down to the rock and Sunjata’s left standing, eyes never leaving her but it’s clear that he isn’t quite there.
It's as if he’s looking through her. He doesn’t know whether he should be trying to comfort her, if he should be chastising himself for not realizing that Ronin would likely be there, chastising himself for knowing that the second the Huntsman arrived that there’d be little to no hope of getting Nate to stop unless one of them went down.
And it was Nate. His Nate. The moon to his sun, the winter to his summer. He swallows, brows pinching. “He’s…” He cuts himself off, jaw clamping shut with an audible click, the muscles feathering in his jaw are the only giveaway that he’s attempting to say something else. It’s a strange, almost unnatural type of click back into place as his gears work, as anger and rage takes over for the sorrow. There’s time for that later. There’s always time for that, later.
Twenty-five years of it and counting, to be exact. “He wouldn’t have left. Not… Not with Ronin there. Not after everything with me.” He shakes his head, works his jaw a second longer, trying to quell himself internally but it’s so incredibly difficult without his attuned shifts slipping out to relieve some of the pressure.
Instead, the dragon inside him rages and roars. “I can’t leave him. I won’t leave him, Wessex. You have to know that.” It’s a statement. Already the plans are moving in his mind, a sitter for his twins, (twins that are going to wonder just why one of their fathers wasn’t coming back for a long time, if ever), but already it feels daunting, to try and face Ronin and Remi after it all, to show up and demand that they give his husband back to him.
Honestly, he’d likely go down trying to get him back if it came down to it. “Fuck!” He curses, needed a way to get out the pent up horror that crawls like ink through his veins. He moves now, finally not a statue as he turns halfway from where Wessex sits on the rock, his lightning scarred hand rising to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, trailing down to pull over his scarred cheek and lips, a sharp exhale. “Gods-fucking-damnit.” He mutters behind his hand, eyes focusing on a rock, something nondescript as he tries to run through his plans. “I’m leaving. I-I have to get him. I have to.” (I have to, i have to, ihaveto, ihaveto.)
He already knows better than to get to Stormbreak as his dragon shift, but he hopes that nobody would be surprised to hear the lightning crackle through the sky in his departure over the barrier.
so we're not written in the stars,
but i'm okay with that. i'm okay with anything
but i'm okay with that. i'm okay with anything
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
