12-29-2019, 12:23 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; He is still trying to comprehend what he’d seen. He was taken back, a clock rewound, led to see her death and his own awful self – but this time, he saved her. This time, she said thank you. She didn’t follow him any further – she’d left, and he’d let her – but it had been more than he could have hoped for. There was still no love in those amber eyes, but they did not blaze quite so bright with hatred. She’d heard the exchange, the strange impossible conversation with his own self, the self that was all but unrecognizable. He doesn’t know the foundations of this experience was a shared one, that it was part of some larger plan. He had not completed the plan, ultimately, but he did not know this and further, he did not care, because he’d found the smallest measure of salvation in her thanks, in the knowledge that there was one timeline where she did not die by his hand on that day. He is not thinking of the white mare he met briefly, and still does not think of her when the white eagle lands before him. It’s only when she transforms that her recognizes her, and his orange eyes widen with surprise. He does not have many repeat encounters, lately, as he is often found to be poor company. He smiles, though, because he had liked her, she had been kind and she had questioned the awfulness of his deserved name. “Agetta,” he says, “it’s good to see you again.” He doesn’t know what she’s seen – had he known; he would have fled. But he is ignorant, so he smiles, thinking that she may become a friend. Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |
@[Agetta]