malachi le roux ; one ; 1st games (fin)

[gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

m a l a c h i   l e   r o u x

district one
eighteen
rebel | prince king
cross my heart
& hope to rage

[gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

“Name one hero who was happy.

[...] You can't.”

— madeline miller ; song of achilles.

[gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

howling ghost they reappear
in mountains that are stacked with fear
but i'm a king and i'm a lion-heart
a lion-heart

“Do you know what it means to be lion-hearted?” his father queried, face mottled with shadows and dying kerosene light.

Malachi’s eyes narrowed in the dark;

“no,” he answered with a hushed tone.

“It’s to be so brave that your heart is indistinguishable from a lion's, the king of the jungle’s.”

“As though a lion lives in my heart?”

“Yes,” a smile rippled across his face.

“We are both lion-hearted, pa.”

“All the Lerouxes are.”

From the dark woods ahead of them, a distant cacophony arises—footsteps of men—and draws closer. He would see what emerges from the darkness even if his eyes are set on the barren ground below, even if they were clenched impossibly shut: an row of pocket-sized soldiers all cladded in white, the color of innocence mutated to cruelty. Both Malachi and the lion in his heart bites back a roar, redacts the claws; recklessness and a fervent display of anger are the same as making your death bed here. Yet, the feral rhythm of his heartbeat in his chest did not quiet. It was the mouthpiece of old animals; something filled to its brims with a holy wilderness he’d been told he was born with. Sometimes, rampant lions and strong boys were near indistinguishable.

The footsteps grew louder, and so did the war-songs in his heart, sung through sharp teeth. He tautened his hands into fists and readied himself, a lion cub rampant and glorious in the dark, every muscle in his body laden with animosity.

“What are we going to do?”

he asked quietly, turning to his father.

The other man was as quiet as the forest for a few moments. Footsteps neared, menacingly; from the unkind sound alone, it was evident that whoever they belonged to weren’t here for an armistice. Hoping for a cease-fire now, at this stage in the rebellion, was the same as turning your back to an imminent avalanche and letting it bury you in its rot and ruins. There was no choice left, but there weren’t much choices to begin with—a war wasn't composed of choices, but heavy sacrifices, both willing and unwilling.

“What are we going to do, pa?” he rasped louder.

“Be brave,” the other finally said and rose to his feet from a crouching stance. From his perspective, the color of John Le Roux’s shoulders were the same as the canopies over his head, as the dark skies beyond that, as the darkness that seemed to hold its breath along with Malachi. The only thing that announced his father’s presence was the starlight that pierced through the dark spurs of apple trees and settled on his armored, huge form, gently, like a drape.

“The Le Roux crusade needs a new king soon,” he said, staring at the soldiers head. The fire in his golden pupils frightened Malachi. “You were prince Le Roux before, but now you are king Le Roux.” The word resonated in his chest, a spoken coronation.

King. King Le Roux. King Malachi Le Roux.

“I love you, Malachi.” His other hand that wasn't holding the now-dead kerosene lamp grasped something khaki-colored that Malachi couldn't make out in the dark.

“Brothers, take him away.”

“—What,” before he could even speak, the coarse, sweaty palm of a hand firmed around his mouth, stifling the protests and the snarls that rose from it seconds later. Some more hands, drenched in shadows and completely invisible except for the way they felt, wound around his helpless limbs and began to drag him away. Soon, as though the abyss had unhinged its jaws and was now devouring Malachi whole, the entire world became a moving patchwork of blue-winged shadows, the only sound for a second the mournful rustling of trees from the thick canopy overhead, the only things he felt the hands latched onto his body and the leaves brushing against his skin. It felt as though he was moving against a hungry current, passing through fish and seaweed, utter helplessly like all humans were to the sea and its tides.

He clenched his eyes shut but it made no difference—

the dark persevered.

Then, bright light flooded his eyes
as though a dam of it had been undone.

Then, the earth below shuddered
and he felt it in his bones: a heavy jolt.

Then, flames danced over a pile
of white-cladded bodies and his father.

Then, the roar that had been
garnered in his tense throat coursed free.

Moments after, another row of soldiers emerged from another dense bank of darkness, steadily so, another malicious rhythm to their marching feet. Their silvery guns, cradled by white arms, glistened like stolen stars in the dark and soon, the spring air gave way to a sharp scent of gunpowder—everywhere he went smelling of it—and soon, very cruelly soon, he, the remaining lion, became ensnared, his crown of gold trampled underfoot.

But who was he to be surprised?

Malachi already knew;

the old gods could never win against the new. 

and in the sea that's painted black
creatures lurk below the deck
but i'm a king and i'm a lion-heart
a lionheart



lyrics: of monsters and men — king and lionheart

[gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

L△LIA

[L△LIA]

I think we all know I'm a sucker for lion imagery so hello, I'm here for it! From the starlight through the spurs of apple trees to the crown underfoot, this is lovely.

ACCEPTED!