02-02-2020, 08:34 PM
He likes that grin. It is something he could never replicate, it is enticing, wild, and far from lovely - but no less desirable because of that.
Violence is a clever woman, although he does not realize how she plays him now. She introduces the idea before touching his mind, gives him a moment to adjust to the strange idea. It is too sweet an offer she makes; all the sirens ringing in his mind are less important the breeze ruffling the meadow grasses. Without warning, he would have shied, snorted and turned away. But there is an allure to this, a give and take - an intimacy that he does not want to deny. His head dips in the sort of way the kingdom-men bow to their queens as she steps forward and he never thinks of fighting it.
When he does feel the pressure, the fingers of her thoughts brushing across his consciousness, his knees buckle and he welcomes the weight of her into himself.
His mind is a dark place, forever colored by his formative years slinking from shadow to shadow. It is a still place, his thoughts are economical and rarely ramble. Yet, as he asks his memory to bring forward the moment he had tried so long to forget, there is hesitation.
He never remembered the full of it, but for her, he would try.
He begins with the few things he couldn't forget.
First comes the scent of the beast, the scent of his mother's sickness. He remembers the way the forest floor had trembled as the creature approached, it's rotting carnivorous breath as it salivated at the thought of them. Against the haze of the corroded memory, the gleam of its teeth and the whites of its eyes were bright. His mother's face had been terrible, the fear he had felt washes over him as he had looked for guidance only to see her focused eyes locked with their attacker, her gaunt face made terrible by the expression it held. It was the look of a woman who was about to fight to the death and was not afraid - he knew that now.
He remembers that deep thud he could almost feel as the two warriors' bodies collided. The squeal and following cry his mother made as the scent of blood saturated the gully. He remembers running then. He ran for a long time after that in his dreams; his gawky legs tangling below him night after night. Ivy, bones, and stones all rose together from the damp and foul muck to slow his progress.
This is where the memories stop; he never looks back over his shoulder.
But he knows that is not how it went.
He runs, and runs and runs, but that is not how he got away. His mind balks as he counters this false memory. The hazy truth is there, but it is stubborn, and his consciousness reaches for Violence's guidance, reaches for the iron strength of her that he can fell filling up all his empty spaces.
Violence is a clever woman, although he does not realize how she plays him now. She introduces the idea before touching his mind, gives him a moment to adjust to the strange idea. It is too sweet an offer she makes; all the sirens ringing in his mind are less important the breeze ruffling the meadow grasses. Without warning, he would have shied, snorted and turned away. But there is an allure to this, a give and take - an intimacy that he does not want to deny. His head dips in the sort of way the kingdom-men bow to their queens as she steps forward and he never thinks of fighting it.
When he does feel the pressure, the fingers of her thoughts brushing across his consciousness, his knees buckle and he welcomes the weight of her into himself.
His mind is a dark place, forever colored by his formative years slinking from shadow to shadow. It is a still place, his thoughts are economical and rarely ramble. Yet, as he asks his memory to bring forward the moment he had tried so long to forget, there is hesitation.
He never remembered the full of it, but for her, he would try.
He begins with the few things he couldn't forget.
First comes the scent of the beast, the scent of his mother's sickness. He remembers the way the forest floor had trembled as the creature approached, it's rotting carnivorous breath as it salivated at the thought of them. Against the haze of the corroded memory, the gleam of its teeth and the whites of its eyes were bright. His mother's face had been terrible, the fear he had felt washes over him as he had looked for guidance only to see her focused eyes locked with their attacker, her gaunt face made terrible by the expression it held. It was the look of a woman who was about to fight to the death and was not afraid - he knew that now.
He remembers that deep thud he could almost feel as the two warriors' bodies collided. The squeal and following cry his mother made as the scent of blood saturated the gully. He remembers running then. He ran for a long time after that in his dreams; his gawky legs tangling below him night after night. Ivy, bones, and stones all rose together from the damp and foul muck to slow his progress.
This is where the memories stop; he never looks back over his shoulder.
But he knows that is not how it went.
He runs, and runs and runs, but that is not how he got away. His mind balks as he counters this false memory. The hazy truth is there, but it is stubborn, and his consciousness reaches for Violence's guidance, reaches for the iron strength of her that he can fell filling up all his empty spaces.
