?
SUNJATA
SUNJATA
He considers her words with a tilt to his head and he nods quietly. “I suppose you’re right.” He rumbles, a hint of humor lingering in his tone on the tip of his tongue. But she nods to him before she darts off, and at first he begins to want to follow her – until he remembers she mentioned it was just a bag of fluff, likely not heavy at all – and she returns in a near instant much to Sunjata’s surprise. Standing aside, he lets her step inside and hand it off to him, arms reaching up to grab onto the bag and a hanger to hang it upon.
He then hears her words as he works to secure it, to make sure it won’t fly off when he aims against it. Glancing over his shoulder to her, he nods, but says nothing as she turns away and leaves him.
Once the bag is secured, he steps back from it and removes his shirt. Despite the bag itself being soft and simplistic, not the hard roughness he’s used to, it’s been awhile since he’s thrown any punches of any kind, and he knows with the warmth of the receding day, that the shed would heat up with all the energy he exerts. Balling his hands into fists, his steel eyes linger on the bag, dragging up those hidden feelings, those hidden thoughts and memories that always turned his mood sour.
His first punch is testing, soft, as he regains his stance, eyes focusing on the bag as he thinks of it all – channeling his frustrations, his anger into the poor quilt bag. At first, he thinks of the things Phoebe had said – the blight, the frustration that had overcame her, the venomous words spat at him. Usually, they didn’t bother him, but on this day with the implications of what they meant, the question she had poised knowing he couldn’t answer it, it causes him to clench his teeth once more as he throws punch after punch.
He thinks of the time he had proclaimed it to Lusea, up on the rooftops of Korofi, spinning her around after whisking her away from the bar that night – claiming someone would come to cover for her if she suddenly went missing (it’s not like it happened rarely there), and she had reluctantly agreed, joining him up onto the rooftops, snide comments and jokes, quiet moments of dancing to the music in the streets from high above.
It had been months they had done this, slipping away, disappearing, but this night was different – the sun had set in a more beautiful light, casting the clouds in hues of golds and purples, the colors that had shifted in her own eyes when he stopped to look at her, hand lingering along her side as she spun in his arms and she had pulled herself into him – a soft giggle of sound, accompanied to the music, and he had smiled to her, a kind, soft smile that Phoebe had seen before, reserved for those moments. His head had shifted toward her, lips grazing her cheek before he had managed to say it. “I love you. We could run away tonight, married by the morning... Do you want to?” Because he had never been good with wording, even then.
And she had been surprised, elated, but surprised. He can picture it now as he pauses, catching a breath after realizing he had been holding it, her eyes wide like a doe. And she had told it to him too – a beautiful sound that he couldn’t wouldn’t ever get out of his mind. “I love you too, Sunny, yes I’ll marry you.” Surprise and humor and hope that gleamed within. But that day had also been the day everything went to hell. He had skipped out on too many events, pissed off his father far too much, and the person he had claimed to cover for her had been the one to cause the riot.
In an instant, the music in the streets had stopped but he had been too wrapped up in her to notice. Too wrapped up in the melody of words that left him the happiest he’d ever been. Men began to filter in through the building below, traveling up and up, while the world around them grew quiet. And under a beautiful sunset, wrapped up with one another in sweet words and kisses, had been when they had struck. Appearing through all three of the top entrances with no way out.
He knew what would happen, his father had threatened as much months before when he began it, when his father had grown to suspect his son had no interest in continuing with the law abiding nature they were supposed to stand for, but he couldn’t stop going where he wasn't welcome – going to the dark places where he originally had never been welcome, deep within the world of the criminals, of the gangs, proving himself by might and blood, day and night – and then he had met her.
And over time she had become his drug, and eventually he had gone too far, had been less careful, had failed again and again. First when he was ratted out, second when they had trapped them on the rooftops and he had pushed her behind him (knowing they would use her against him because she was the only thing he had that was his), third when she had clung to him in fear while he tried to decide if it would be better to jump from the five story building rather than to meet the fate that awaited them.
They both had decided to jump, and as they turned to await the fate they had chosen, they had been grabbed – handcuffed, dragged out, and gods how Sunjata had raged when he saw the fear in her eyes. He had tried to fight back. One would think he would have had an upper hand, the very same people he had trained beside were the ones that captured them, but it had failed him here when it mattered the most.
Dragged back in chains to his home of all places, forced to face his father weeks after the capture, of watching Lusea get tortured, kicked down to his knees and forced to remain there. And Lusea too, had to attend the conversation with tears in her dress and a tear streaked face. And he had raged further, spitting venom and flame to his father, watching as his father smirked and rose from his seat, taking the insults, the venom and fury and spinning it around in a far more physical manner, when he had walked over to Lusea while Jata fought at the chains, at the guards (who held a knife to his neck that he pushed against without restraint, carving and opening that crude wound on his neck from his ear to his chest when he fought against it), watching with wide eyes as his father lifted her head by the hair and without warning, without any form of idea, pulled a hidden knife and slit her throat.
In truth, he’s afraid to say anything like that – a bind to him, a bind to his destruction and fury and flame, his protection not enough despite what he wanted to believe. He’s so, horribly afraid of doing it all wrong again. And since then, he had chosen to show his love in other ways, in easier, less painful ways, ways that wouldn’t remind him of the day he had lost the only thing he ever had. That is why he is so attached, a part (most) of him still grieves, still wishes to change it.
He doesn’t think he deserves it again.
Jata doesn’t know how long it’s been when he reemerges from the memory, standing still as his chest heaves and sweat gleams on the panes of his body, the tattoos and scars along his neck. The bag with the quilt filler looks quite a bit sad, but he rests his head against it anyway, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he breathes, and feels a small amount of relief with the gesture. “Ek is jammer dat ek moeilik is om lief te hê, ek is jammer dat ek nie genoeg was nie.” His voice is thick, rough and breathless when he finally sighs away his vow, finding it fitting enough for then as it was now, his frustrations, clarity returning and clearing his gaze, tension relieving from the muscles that clenched and teeth that gnashed. The darkness within him hiding away once more, temper relieving, and exhaustion settling in.
Ek is jammer dat ek moeilik is om lief te hê, ek is jammer dat ek nie genoeg was nie. - i am sorry i am hard to love, i am sorry i wasn’t enough.
He then hears her words as he works to secure it, to make sure it won’t fly off when he aims against it. Glancing over his shoulder to her, he nods, but says nothing as she turns away and leaves him.
Once the bag is secured, he steps back from it and removes his shirt. Despite the bag itself being soft and simplistic, not the hard roughness he’s used to, it’s been awhile since he’s thrown any punches of any kind, and he knows with the warmth of the receding day, that the shed would heat up with all the energy he exerts. Balling his hands into fists, his steel eyes linger on the bag, dragging up those hidden feelings, those hidden thoughts and memories that always turned his mood sour.
His first punch is testing, soft, as he regains his stance, eyes focusing on the bag as he thinks of it all – channeling his frustrations, his anger into the poor quilt bag. At first, he thinks of the things Phoebe had said – the blight, the frustration that had overcame her, the venomous words spat at him. Usually, they didn’t bother him, but on this day with the implications of what they meant, the question she had poised knowing he couldn’t answer it, it causes him to clench his teeth once more as he throws punch after punch.
He thinks of the time he had proclaimed it to Lusea, up on the rooftops of Korofi, spinning her around after whisking her away from the bar that night – claiming someone would come to cover for her if she suddenly went missing (it’s not like it happened rarely there), and she had reluctantly agreed, joining him up onto the rooftops, snide comments and jokes, quiet moments of dancing to the music in the streets from high above.
It had been months they had done this, slipping away, disappearing, but this night was different – the sun had set in a more beautiful light, casting the clouds in hues of golds and purples, the colors that had shifted in her own eyes when he stopped to look at her, hand lingering along her side as she spun in his arms and she had pulled herself into him – a soft giggle of sound, accompanied to the music, and he had smiled to her, a kind, soft smile that Phoebe had seen before, reserved for those moments. His head had shifted toward her, lips grazing her cheek before he had managed to say it. “I love you. We could run away tonight, married by the morning... Do you want to?” Because he had never been good with wording, even then.
And she had been surprised, elated, but surprised. He can picture it now as he pauses, catching a breath after realizing he had been holding it, her eyes wide like a doe. And she had told it to him too – a beautiful sound that he couldn’t wouldn’t ever get out of his mind. “I love you too, Sunny, yes I’ll marry you.” Surprise and humor and hope that gleamed within. But that day had also been the day everything went to hell. He had skipped out on too many events, pissed off his father far too much, and the person he had claimed to cover for her had been the one to cause the riot.
In an instant, the music in the streets had stopped but he had been too wrapped up in her to notice. Too wrapped up in the melody of words that left him the happiest he’d ever been. Men began to filter in through the building below, traveling up and up, while the world around them grew quiet. And under a beautiful sunset, wrapped up with one another in sweet words and kisses, had been when they had struck. Appearing through all three of the top entrances with no way out.
He knew what would happen, his father had threatened as much months before when he began it, when his father had grown to suspect his son had no interest in continuing with the law abiding nature they were supposed to stand for, but he couldn’t stop going where he wasn't welcome – going to the dark places where he originally had never been welcome, deep within the world of the criminals, of the gangs, proving himself by might and blood, day and night – and then he had met her.
And over time she had become his drug, and eventually he had gone too far, had been less careful, had failed again and again. First when he was ratted out, second when they had trapped them on the rooftops and he had pushed her behind him (knowing they would use her against him because she was the only thing he had that was his), third when she had clung to him in fear while he tried to decide if it would be better to jump from the five story building rather than to meet the fate that awaited them.
They both had decided to jump, and as they turned to await the fate they had chosen, they had been grabbed – handcuffed, dragged out, and gods how Sunjata had raged when he saw the fear in her eyes. He had tried to fight back. One would think he would have had an upper hand, the very same people he had trained beside were the ones that captured them, but it had failed him here when it mattered the most.
Dragged back in chains to his home of all places, forced to face his father weeks after the capture, of watching Lusea get tortured, kicked down to his knees and forced to remain there. And Lusea too, had to attend the conversation with tears in her dress and a tear streaked face. And he had raged further, spitting venom and flame to his father, watching as his father smirked and rose from his seat, taking the insults, the venom and fury and spinning it around in a far more physical manner, when he had walked over to Lusea while Jata fought at the chains, at the guards (who held a knife to his neck that he pushed against without restraint, carving and opening that crude wound on his neck from his ear to his chest when he fought against it), watching with wide eyes as his father lifted her head by the hair and without warning, without any form of idea, pulled a hidden knife and slit her throat.
In truth, he’s afraid to say anything like that – a bind to him, a bind to his destruction and fury and flame, his protection not enough despite what he wanted to believe. He’s so, horribly afraid of doing it all wrong again. And since then, he had chosen to show his love in other ways, in easier, less painful ways, ways that wouldn’t remind him of the day he had lost the only thing he ever had. That is why he is so attached, a part (most) of him still grieves, still wishes to change it.
He doesn’t think he deserves it again.
Jata doesn’t know how long it’s been when he reemerges from the memory, standing still as his chest heaves and sweat gleams on the panes of his body, the tattoos and scars along his neck. The bag with the quilt filler looks quite a bit sad, but he rests his head against it anyway, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he breathes, and feels a small amount of relief with the gesture. “Ek is jammer dat ek moeilik is om lief te hê, ek is jammer dat ek nie genoeg was nie.” His voice is thick, rough and breathless when he finally sighs away his vow, finding it fitting enough for then as it was now, his frustrations, clarity returning and clearing his gaze, tension relieving from the muscles that clenched and teeth that gnashed. The darkness within him hiding away once more, temper relieving, and exhaustion settling in.
Ek is jammer dat ek moeilik is om lief te hê, ek is jammer dat ek nie genoeg was nie. - i am sorry i am hard to love, i am sorry i wasn’t enough.
you were forged in fire
& you rose from the ashes
murder and mercy rolled into one
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.
