Poisoned Waters | ✓

|𝟐𝟏| "𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭"

Ode didn't see it as it was, however, he believed that his behaviour was performed by his son to embarrass him in front of the people that aspired to be the leader that he was. It seemed he cared more about his reputation than anything else; and only God knew what that had done to Westley's mental state.

Westley sighed and ran his hand down his face, before he followed him to the changing rooms.

•

   Goldcrest was destined to be a bright, thriving community, not with ferocious flames. It was built from the ground and founded by his father, resonating in Jericho, Oxford, with a group of survivors looking to start a new life in the poisoned world.

Ode wanted his son to be a part of The Crest, it was an organisation of some of the Goldcrest townspeople to be the voice of politics in the community. They created peace with fundamental democracy. However, Westley wanted to be a leader, the only leader at that...

West stood before Murphy's grave. Enormous rocks sat at the head of it, holding up the wide wood plank that had his name inscribed into the oak growth rings. Wilting flowers were rested along the grave in respect.

He grimaced at the fact that his birthday just passed not too long ago, making him twenty-four. It was beginning to get harder to hinder the guilt he felt for drawing his weapon, but if it was enough to make everyone believe his lie, then it was all that mattered.

...Westley liked the idea of power, being able to dominate above people that have to abide with his demands sounded so desirable that he would do anything to get it. His father was a powerful man, he wanted his son to follow in his footsteps even if he was failing at it; not at all knowing that his son believed his mindset was flawed.

The greedy boy wanted nothing more than to stand like Ozymandias, for his visage to hold a timeless sneer that people would fear to upstage. He craved for his cold command to be respected—to prove that he was strong enough to lead, regardless of his father's disappointment.

He failed to realize that his fate was exactly like this forgotten king: bare and bereft of such colossal authority, with nothing residing...

Footsteps drew near and stopped once they reached West. He broke his stare from the gravestone, raising his eyes to find Sasha, who apathetically inspected the wood plank before sitting beside West on the damp grass.

For a moment, they sat in the silence. Then Sasha faintly sighed, the tremble in her actions still resided after weeks of grief. "How are you coping?" West began faintly.

He hadn't attended the small funeral they had—frankly, he wasn't even invited, Zara made sure of it. Sasha was like a ghost, floating in the air aimlessly among the hundreds that lived in the community. As much as the girls tried to convince her otherwise, she was certain that she'd lost her final purpose in this poisoned world, to live happily; and the destroyer sat rigidly beside her.

"I'm okay." she flatly replied. He gazed at her profile. It was reassuring that she looked better, she was coming to terms with it—though her joyful spirit hadn't returned.

"It's a beautiful ring." West commented, not quite sure how to approach the silence that ensued once more.

"I know, he always had the eye for good jewellery." she replied. She gently smiled, glancing down at the engagement band.